


The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name

by glenien



Series: It's No Longer Eighteen Ninety-Five [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Awkward Sexy Times, Bees, Bike abuse, Dreams, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, First Time, Fix-It, Fluff, French, General issues around sex, Hugging, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jane Austenesque backgrounds, Lots of awkward talks, Lots of relationship building, M/M, Marriage, Mary Watson Is A Bad Girl, Mind Palace John, Moriarty is Dead, Off camera gore, Oscar Wilde - Freeform, Parentlock, Past Drug Use, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redbeard - Freeform, References to Depression, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Sherlock's scars, Slight spoilers for Finding Nemo, Smol!Sherlock, Soft!John, The Holmes Manor, The James Problem, Three Continents Watson, Turkish Baths, Victorian Gay Fever, Virgin Sherlock, dance lessons, eating problems, long live moriarty, trash!John, two idiots in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-15 07:06:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5776210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glenien/pseuds/glenien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Sequel to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/5633104">Green Carnation</a>] Although it is true love which fills their hearts with mutual flame, both John and Sherlock need to face their ghosts, to be able to speak its name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. and there we were, sweet summer children

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Green Carnation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5633104) by [glenien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glenien/pseuds/glenien). 



> Sequel to [Green Carnation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5633104), which was my first Sherlock fic, _ever_. I can't express how happy it made me the amount of positive feedback that tiny fic received. You guys are *all* my lovely potatoes. Here I am, attempting to write even longer fix-it now.
> 
> (☞ﾟ∀ﾟ)☞ This fic is now ~~BETAED~~ by utterly lovely, lovely [GorgeousDeduction](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GorgeousDeduction/profile)!!! My apologies it took so long, it is finally done!

**the love that dare not speak its name**

 

  
_“(…) And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush the burnished bosom of the dove,_  
_Two young lovers lying in an orchard would have read the story of our love;_  
_Would have read the legend of my passion, known the bitter secret of my heart,_  
_Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as we two are fated now to part. (…)”  
_

~ Oscar Wilde, **_Flower of Love_** (1881)

 

**i.           and there we were, sweet summer children**

 

A soft whisper of wind caresses his locks. They are curling at the ends, warm sunshine peeking through the green leaves is slowly drying them. Under the shadow of the big oak tree, it smells of lush grass and fragrant summer flowers. The gentle sound of the lulled stream encourages white bellied birds to tweet sweetly, while a fat bumblebee buzzes away.

Watson, sitting opposite, has discarded his jacket, leaving him in his waistcoat and crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow. The hair on his head and arms seems even more golden under warm light.

“What are we doing here, love? I thought you didn’t need us doing this again,” Watson smiles at him fondly and unceremoniously taking his hand on the picnic blanket.

Sherlock squeezes it back and sighs. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“I know,” Watson laughs, amused, “I thought we deleted Jane Austen.”

“We did,” says Sherlock firmly.

Watson grins and lifts an eyebrow. “Well, I can’t help but notice I’m _still_ in my period drama gear. I thought you hated this moustache-”

“I do hate it.”

“Hmm, yes, it kind of defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?” Watson’s smile takes a wicked edge, the pink of his tongue peeking out and licking his lower lip, the blue of his eyes is much, _much_ closer, “after all, you like your doctors clean-shaven…”

“Not _all_ of them.”

“Hmm?”

“Just one- _one army doctor_ -” Sherlock leans closer to nuzzle the side of his face. As he starts to investigate it further, a movement appears at the corner of his vision.

“ _Papa, papa!_ ” A white puff of dress containing one small, little girl with perfectly coiffed golden curls runs towards them and throws herself into Watson’s lap.

“Oi, you little monster! How is my little angel?” Watson catches the little cotton ball and tickles her mercilessly.

Little girl giggles and squirms, protesting loudly, then composing herself. “ _Très bien_ , papa.”

Watson grins proudly. “Oooh, French, now? What else has your fanciful uncle been teaching you?”

Wide blue eyes turn towards him, “Uncle Holmes, Uncle Holmes!” the little angel implores to him, “Tell papa about the _pirouette_!”

The little girl tumbles down between them, effectively separating them and starts chattering about her ballet lessons, while Watson gives him a _look_. “Seriously, Holmes?”

A dark cloud covers the sun slowly, washing them with a tangle of electric light. Oddly, her voice seems muted. Sherlock frowns, trying to make out her words, “What?”

A low clap of thunder rumbles from afar. The first drops of cold rain start falling down through the leaves above. “You are not even being _subtle_ now. Or are you?” Watson demands, he looks angry. “She didn’t get these locks or the French from my side, obviously.”

Sherlock doesn't understand what he is implying but can see the little girl seems frightened. “Don’t be ridiculous, John.”

The heavy rain starts to form large mud puddles, soaking into the soil and the red checkered blanket. Watson's baby girl shivers violently and hugs her knees, her large eyes fill with unshed tears, her bottom lip pouting and trembling dangerously. “Papa,” she whimpers, “Papa, I’m _scared_.”

John is furious. He doesn’t seem to register the child's misery or the pounding rain soaking him to the bone. “ _You_ are the ridiculous one!” He shouts at him, pointing at his daughter, “For god’s sake- we’ve just got together! Why conjure this melodramatic scene? What purpose does it serve? _Holmes!_ Answer me, damn it! _What are you doing?_ ”

Walking towards muddy stream, Sherlock sees that the current is dangerously fast, the water filled with snapped branches, now. It would be foolish for him to cross the water now.

But there is an umbrella at the other side of the stream.

“ _What the HELL are you doing?!_ ” John frantically screams at him as he steps into the water. The little girl cries in terror as lightning washes out the sky, followed by deafening thunder. “Holmes! Listen to me- Holmes! _HOLMES!”_

“ _SHERLOCK!_ ”

Surprised, Sherlock blinks the water out of his eyes and looks down.

He is now standing on the rooftop at Bart's Hospital. John is not down on the pavement. With the low rumble of thunder, the heavy rain soaks his coat.

“ _Please_ ,” he hears a pleading voice behind him. Turning he sees John, drenched, standing next to Moriarty’s corpse. “Please, Sherlock. _Don’t do this_.”

“I _can’t_ , John.” He is crying, still holding onto his phone.

“ _Listen to me_ ,” John’s darkened hair is dripping with water as he reaches out a hand to him. “It was _always_ you and me. You get that? It was _always_ supposed to be you, and me, you absolute pillock. You can’t go out on your own and leave me behind now. Not _like this_. Not this time.” His voice is forceful but his eyes are red and his hand is trembling violently. “For once. Come away from there, please. _Please_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock hesitates. Fat drops of water blurs his phone’s screen. He puts it inside his coat. And steps away from the edge.

He sees one second of utter relief on John’s face, then triple bangs of a shotgun pierce his eardrums and John’s chest.

“ _NO!_ ” Sherlock screams.

John looks surprised, falling to his knees and then falls down. With alarming speed, a dark coloured puddle starts to form and soak the rain washed gravel. John coughs and blood pours out of his mouth.

“ _Sherloc_ -” He manages to whisper.

“No, no, NO, _NO!_ ” Sherlock roars out a bloodcurdling cry. His hands are immediately soaked with dark, sticky blood, yet more keeps pouring out. “No, no, it wasn’t _supposed to be like this_ -”

John’s brilliant eyes focus on his, a glittering light playing in them, then it slowly fades, gaze softening, he blinks once.

“ _NO!_ ” A keen agony pierces through his own chest and Sherlock cannot breathe. “I have to wake up, _not this, no, please-_ ”

John’s body is cold and unmoving under his hands. The rain continues to pound down on them, but he doesn’t blink again.

“ _John_ ,” He sobs, “John…”

 

***

 

 

John jumps when Sherlock’s hoarse voice pierce through the silent bedroom.

“ _No, no, John_ -” Sherlock moans.

Disoriented, John tries to get himself up from the floor, cursing silently when he hits his head to the corner of the nightstand. “Sherlock- _Jesus_ ,” He finally manages to turn the lamp on and sit down next to Sherlock. “It’s okay- Sherlock, it’s me. It’s just a dream. _It’s just a dream_.”

John struggles to separate the impossibly tangled detective from the strangling bedclothes before gathering him up. “Oh my god, come here. Come here, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

Sherlock grasps at him as if he was drowning, his screams suddenly dying down. “It was a dream,” he whispers like a mantra, “it was a dream-”

John wraps him tight in his arms, rocking him, “It’s the drugs. It’s the drugs Sherlock, you know it, it will wear off. I’m fine. I’m more than fine, see?”

As if he hadn't heard John, Sherlock buries his face into his neck, his body shuddering with silent sobs.

Something breaks inside John’s heart. “Oh love, it’s okay. It’s okay, sshh…” Hesitant, John touches his thin t-shirt soothingly, “God, you’re soaked. Shall I make some tea?”

A hand grasps his back. “No.”

“Okay,” John agrees readily.

“Not- _not yet_.”

“Okay. I’m not going anywhere,” John murmurs as Sherlock struggles with evening out his breaths, “You poor soul. Your poor brain is all over the place.” Encouraged by Sherlock’s slumping body, John slowly starts caressing his hair. “Let’s kiss it better, hmm?”

Sherlock gives out a small snort of laugh as John puts a tiny kiss at the side of his head.

John smiles, “What are you laughing about, eh? It’s a proved age-old technic in modern medicine, I’ll have you know.”

“I’m not laughing,” Sherlock mumbles and burrows further into John’s embrace.

John moves, easily accommodating him. “It’s known to cure bruised knees and messed up mind palaces,” he informs him kindly and kisses him in the head again.  

Sherlock sighs. “You can- _continue_ doing that.”

“What? This?” John lowers his voice, while his fingers run through his hair, “Or this?” John kisses his brow.

 

***

 

Sherlock slightly elevates his face, in return, he receives a kiss to his nose, then to his lips. John seems content to let him set the pace, giving him tiny, gentle pecks of kisses. Sherlock draws a breath and catches one of them, slightly scooting closer to John. The kisses start glide over one other. Then again. Then longer.

Suddenly yearning for more, Sherlock grasps John’s face, claiming his tongue. He feels more than hears a moan reverberating John’s chest. _Interesting_.

Then John draws back slightly and clears his throat, tips of his ears coloured, “Sherlock- it’s not-”

Sherlock kisses him quiet.

“ _God_ \- you just had a drug fever dream-” John tries to object again, but continues to breathlessly return his kisses, “It’s _not_ -”

“John- shut up- and _distract_ me,” Sherlock commands. John gives out another beautiful moan as he straddles him. For a minute or so, it works amazingly. John is apparently physically incapable of forming complete sentences with Sherlock sitting in his lap peppering him with long, passionate kisses. _Hmm, interesting_.

“I don’t wan-” John’s voice chokes down a long groan when Sherlock grabs the outline of his cock through his jeans.

“Hmm, _wrong_ ,” Sherlock murmurs to his lips, now very, _very_ interested. John is _more_ than half-hard and he, himself, can feel the stirrings of upcoming arousal through the haziness of heavy drugs and feverish nightmares. _Very_ promising.

Panting now, John breaks the kiss and grabs his wrist. “God, just- just _slow down_ , okay, I don’t want a quickie- I-” John gulps a breath, his face the colour of the setting sun. The beginning of his morning beard and his lips graze the side of Sherlock’s face, “I want to _make love_ to you.”

Sherlock stops trying to fondle him. He is unable to speak for a moment. Then, “ _God_ -” a moan tears out of his throat.

John closes his eyes and blushes even further. “Sorry…”

Sherlock grabs him by the back of his shirt. “It’s _impossible_ to mock you now that your romantic intentions are towards me,” he bemoans into his neck.

John is biting his lower lip, trying to rein in his smile, “Sorry, love,” He risks a small kiss, “You’ve known what I was like since the beginning.”

“John Watson, the _hopeless_ romantic,” Sherlock sighs, feeling petulant, “Are you going to buy me roses now?”

John does not raise to the bait, “Hmm, how about a nice breakfast?” he asks, slowly drawing circles around Sherlock’s ribs.

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock lies, more interested in going back to previous conversation now.

John rises an eyebrow. “I’ll make you some tea.”

“You already make the tea.”

“Well, I can also make you a breakfast,” John insists, “I can hear your belly grumbling from here.”

“It’s happy to see you,” Sherlock insists, John giggles, Sherlock can’t help but smile.

“Come on,” John lightly moves him off his lap, “You need to eat something. Let me use the bathroom first, then you can have your shower while I prepare it,” he says as he gets up.

Sherlock glances over. “Need a hand, there?”

John does not make a move to hide his crotch. “Maybe next time,” he says unapologetically, but he is biting his lower lip and his blush is still visible. He lifts an eyebrow towards Sherlock’s lap.

After _that_ comment, Sherlock _is_ hard, but compared to John’s visible erection, it’s only half-hearted. “It’s _the drugs_ ,” he complains.

John grins and opens the door. “Here’s your incentive, then.”

Sherlock groans and buries his face in his pillow. When John has gone, he realizes it’s raining outside. With a sigh, he watches raindrops form unilinear patterns on the window glass.

 

***

 

The slightly dodgy, metallic clinking sound their poor, abused kettle makes while boiling the water along with and the other pedestrian sounds of Baker Street fill the kitchen with an air of familiarity that John realizes he's missed. A lot.

After finding his RAMC mug and another one for Sherlock that looks relatively safe, he frugally squeezes out their teabags. Searching the cupboard again he finds a jar of jam, behind the other jar labelled “NOT SUGAR.” He smiles fondly thinking how Sherlock only deems this one kind of fancy stuff worthy of using. John is sort of pleased that it was in the same place, unlike the coffee, apparently. 

He pauses, looking up again at the label on the jar that is not sugar. It’s in his own handwriting. It’s the same label he wrote out all those years ago. Glancing around he takes in the fact that nothing else has been moved. Only the coffee. In the entire time they shared a kitchen Sherlock had not moved a single thing. It dawns on him that moving the coffee and that bollocks with Janine must have been a sham, done utterly for his benefit. John bites his lower lip to stop himself from smiling.

The shower turns off and by the time John clears out a space on the kitchen table, carefully using thick gloves to move the bio-hazard samples, Sherlock has come out with his dressing gown over a fresh shirt and pyjama bottoms, his hair is still soggy from his shower. John puts down the eggs, beans, toast and tea in front of him.

 

***

 

Sherlock fidgets, looks at John’s single lifted eyebrow, then bites a tiny bit of the toast.

John clears his throat. “How is it?”

“Um- it’s- it’s good. Thank you.” Sherlock quickly takes another minuscule bite of his eggs, to keep from offending him.

“You’re welcome,” John takes a large gulp from his tea. It’s still too hot.

An awkward silence settles. Sherlock looks down at his plate.

“Jesus- just- come here,” John drags his chair towards Sherlock and kisses him. Sherlock is a pleasantly pink when he is finished.

“Just, eat it okay? You need the fuel,” John mumbles at his cheek, kissing him again in there too, and pulls slightly back.

“Okay,” Sherlock breathes out, feeling dazzled.

“Come on,” John does not move back to his usual place, instead is a warm addition to his side. He can feel John’s fingers clinging to his waist, his thumb drawing circles on Sherlock’s waist and his nose is on his shoulder, like he can’t help nuzzling him.

Sherlock feels a warm tingle down to his toes and takes a large bite, suddenly realizing he is starving.

As he eats ravenously, John sighs to his shoulder, “I don’t suppose you want to tell me about your dream?”

“No,” Sherlock grumbles around his mouth full.

“Well- I wouldn’t either,” His fingers trace around Sherlock’s, which is currently wrapped around the hot mug. “But, maybe we should. Talk. Um-”

Sherlock is taken aback. “I just promised you- you don’t need to worry.”

“I know, I know…” John sighs, “Sherlock, it- it doesn’t work like that. I know you are still worried about- and- and you are currently under house arrest until your brother manages to rectify your situation and- I’m just telling you…” John takes a deep breath and grasps Sherlock’s fingers. “I’m here, with you, okay? Let’s just talk about what we are going to do.”

Sherlock is silent for a moment while he searches John’s eyes.

“Moriarty is definitely dead,” he says softly.

“Okay,” John nods.

“Which means someone else has sent that video message.”

“Okay,” John looks troubled, “Who?”

John’s fingers are slightly callused. Not much as his, they are not hands of a musician, but more like a worker- a man who makes his living with his hands, who does not shy away from a bit of collateral damage.

Which is _not_ acceptable.

Sherlock pushes away his breakfast and turns to John. “What did you tell Mary when you came here?”

John looks confused at the sudden subject change. “I told her that I was taking care of you. She doesn’t expect me…” John looks uncomfortable, turning his wedding ring. “I- I don’t always stay at home...”

“You don’t?” Sherlock blinks.

John shakes his head, “I- I crash at Mike’s- or at Greg’s… I spent a month at my sister,” John seems baffled. “You didn’t see it, on me, on my- clothes or something?”

John looks at him.

_Folded clothes- but cycles to work, hasn’t gone to work for at least a week, but visited the clinic??- irons his own clothes, Mike’s wife offered- didn’t change since yesterday, spent the whole night on the floor, signs of anxiety, didn’t sleep well- since, yesterday?... a week?... longer?... his back is hurting, Greg’s couch, slight wear on his left shoe, signs of favouring his left side-_

Sherlock shakes his head as if to remove water from his ears. There is _too much_ conflicting data.

“Why?” Sherlock is utterly bewildered, “I mean- why- why not _here_ , why _Lestrade’s_? You _hate_ your sister. And you were holding hands with Mary before the lift off – I thought you two made up, after Christmas.”

John snorts a bitter laugh, starts to gather up the plates and turns the tap on.

_Didn’t eat breakfast and most likely dinner- sliming around the waist, loss of appetite - not a health strike, signs of dehydration, his lips are chapped but still, soft- licks them often, more often than necessary, especially when he wants a kiss- now, focus- **his left side?**_

“Well, I tried- I tried for the sake of my,” John takes a tiny pause, “child, but then my best friend who had been shot in the chest recently, blew the brains out of a multimedia millionaire for the sake of his _almost_ murderer and was taken into the custody and-” John takes a deep breath and puts the glass he just washed to dry. “I couldn’t- anymore.”

His left hand spasms.

Sherlock looks at him.

“You are not telling me something,” he inquires, frowning, “Something happened when I was taken into custody.” His voice takes a soft note of wonder, “Why wouldn’t you tell _me_?”

John grasps the corners of the counter and doesn’t look back.

“You spent months here, visiting me, tending to me when I was healing from my wound…” Sherlock continues, trying to get a read on him, “but you wouldn’t stay. You were angry with yourself and Mary, for deceiving us, and also with me, for leaving you behind.”

“Yes, _that_ \- that still hasn’t changed,” John turns towards him.

“You felt guilty,” Sherlock looks at him, gentling his expression, “That’s why you wouldn’t stay here, even though you didn’t want to see your wife. Which is _entirely_ unnecessary, you always have a home in here and I was more than willing to die for you once-”

John makes a painful sound and looks up the ceiling. “ _Alright_ \- can we- stop, with the...”

“Sorry,” Sherlock bites his lower lip. “When I suggested you invite Mary to my parents’ Christmas dinner, you weren’t happy with me. But I could see the anger was doing to you. You wanted to read the USB, but couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You made a copy of it like I initially offered and burned the original one in front of Mary so that you could convince her of your sincerity. But you are an awful liar, John- so I’m not sure she believed you-”

“She believed me,” John taps his fingers against the counter, not moving a muscle, his face twists into an almost cruel smile, “She even cried and everything.”

Doubtful, Sherlock makes a face, “Doesn’t necessarily mean-”

John throws him a pointed look, “I saw you faking it and I _know_ the difference, Sherlock.”

Sherlock clears his throat. “Yes, well. You are a responsible man and had a complicated relationship with your father-”

“And mother,” John corrects, unprompted.

“-and your mother until your late teen years and possibly into adulthood but still value familial ties even though your strained relationship with your sister suggests otherwise, you wouldn’t want to abandon your child. You love children and always wanted to be a father one day, so it makes sense that you would try to mend your relationship with Mary,” Sherlock concludes and suddenly feels a pang tearing through his heart.

As his eyes drop to his cup, he can feel that John’s gaze has softened, “And?...” he gently prompts him, “Sherlock?”

“This is not about Mary. It’s not about her, at all,” Sherlock murmurs to kitchen table, “You- you already had decided- about- about this. Us. Long before.”

“I did,” John says with such certainty, such affection that Sherlock feels his insides turning into mush.

“You had one reason- you wouldn’t want to leave your child. You were staying with her only because of the baby. So what changed?” Sherlock asks and watches John not answer him.

He watches John give a final wipe to the counter and, step away from it, taking another step towards the sitting room and then another.

“You are _limping_ ,” Sherlock blurts out in total horror.

John’s fingertips are white from clenching the back of his soft armchair. “It’s psychosomatic. It comes and goes. Ignore it.”

Sherlock bolts out of the kitchen with such urgency that he knocks off the chair he was sitting on. “John-”

“ _Don’t_ -” With difficulty, John takes a visible deep breath and forces himself to look him in the eye, “Sherlock, please.”

Sherlock feels his eyes rush over John as they gather usable, reliable information and send it to his brain. He doesn’t even know where to start. He sits opposite of John, their armchairs dragged close again. Hesitant, he asks, “Before, you said something- what did you mean about the baby?”

John’s right leg twitches and he curls his left fist, opening and closing it repeatedly. “It’s just…” John falls silent, isn’t able to bring himself to complete his sentence.

Sherlock can’t tear his gaze away from the intermittent tremor on John’s left hand. Feeling suddenly very wrong-footed, an idea slowly dawns and he sharply looks up to John. “Why would you think _that_?”

He watches John swallow and curls his hand further. He has never seen it this bad. Sherlock continues insistently, “Contraceptives are not _reliable_ hundreds percent.”

“No,” John lets out a laugh and it’s so broken that it hurts Sherlock, “they are not.”

Rising out of his stomach, the unwanted feeling he had as he stood up at the top of Barts and looked down at the pavement. And again when he saw Magnussen open up the doors of a bare room, with a cheeky sneer. It is what it is- an unshakable sense of impending doom and the fear of approaching ground, fast and unstoppable. It is never the fall.

_It’s the landing._

“You saw something. What did you see?” he demands. “John. _Tell me_.”

 

***

 

_“CHRIST, SHERLOCK!” John screams out as he lifts his hands up in the air, the piercing light of the helicopter blinds his vision. He barely notices Mycroft’s frantic voice, ordering his men to stand down and not to fire._

_John feels dizzy just by counting the number of the laser rifles turned towards Sherlock’s head. “Oh Christ, Sherlock,” he moans._

_Sherlock yells at him some ridiculous bollocks about staying way back- and giving his love to Mary- for God’s sake. He is definitely going to kill him this time. Oh, Jesus._

_The special force unit does not linger once Sherlock drops down to his knees- one black masked of them approaches the detective and violently kicks Sherlock’s legs under him, forcing him down on the ground with his rifle at the back of his neck. John makes a slight  involuntary move towards the men- and immediately five rifles are locked on his chest. He freezes with his hands still up in the air, his heart pumping hard._

_Sherlock moans something but isn’t able talk, with horror, John sees blood coming from his mouth- then realizes that he probably cut his lip with his teeth when he was forced  down._

_The guy who kicked Sherlock is giving out orders with an air of authority and produces a pair of handcuffs to use on Sherlock._

_In the utter chaos, Mycroft comes out of the helicopter while it is still almost in the air. “I said stand down- don’t fire at them! Sergeant- is he dead?”_

_An efficient pair of fingers to Magnussen’s neck confirms it. “Yes, sir.”_

_“Take my brother into custody,” Mycroft commands, then looks down to his brother. “Sherlock?”_

_Sherlock spits out the blood, then breathes out, “The laptop is inside- Mycroft…”_

_“You utter imbecile,” Mycroft cuts him off with fierce anger, as one of the men brings him the laptop, he carelessly takes it, “Do not fight, do not be smart, just be quiet." Then to his men, "Take him.”_

_Despite the cold shoulder, John notices that Mycroft is really, really worried. This in turn, worries him. There goes his theory then- that this was a brilliant and masterly crafted plan by Holmes brothers and somehow it got bollocksed up during the execution. A sudden fear grips his heart and does not let go. Oh Sherlock, what have you done?_

_Sherlock is uncharacteristically quiet as he is roughly grabbed by two of the beefiest guys and John cannot stand still any longer._

_“Where, where are you taking him?” he demands loudly. He sees the police helicopter starting to take off again and suddenly he is very sure that if Sherlock boards on that helicopter, he will never see his friend ever again. “Mycroft! Where are they taking him?!” he cries out desperately._

_Mycroft’s icy blue eyes lock on his, “Dr. John Watson, you are coming with us too, to be questioned about your acts against the crown and for high treason-”_

_He is dragged along at Mycroft’s fast pace, away from the scene- and away from Sherlock and the helicopter._

_“Okay- but- surely, I need to ride with him- I saw everything- why- why you are taking him to the helicopter-” He tries, oh he tries to bring back the authority which used to shake even toughest recruits into submission. But, unfortunately he is too rattled and it ends up sounding like pathetic begging, “Let me ride with Sherlock- please, Mycroft.”_

_The chopping noise drowns everything out and before John can humiliate himself even further, he sees the helicopter lift off. With Sherlock in it._

_A black car materializes and Mycroft gets into back seat. “Sherlock will meet us there. Get in, Dr. Watson.”_

_John feels cold metal on his wrist and is handcuffed to the inside door handle by one hand, then is pushed in next to Mycroft. The door is closed immediately and the engine roars into life, leaving Appledore behind._

_For one second, John feels a horrible panic grasping his breath before noticing that- he is alone with Mycroft. There is nobody else in the back. The driver’s curtain is closed._

_“Mycroft,” he pleads, not wanting to hear the answer but needing to know, “What- what is going to happen? What’s going to happen to him?”_

_Mycroft looks like he has just aged ten years. He palms his face. “What I feared, John.”_

_“Please,” John is gripped by terror. There were at least ten witnesses. This is not something even the great British government can cover up. “Please- they are not- they are not going to take him somewhere to shoot him, right? He- we were threatened; Magnussen- he- he has my wi-”_

_“John Watson, keep your mouth shut right now. Do not speak,” Mycroft shoots him a harsh look and emphasizes, “Do you understand me?”_

_John opens his mouth and can’t make a sound. He and Mycroft spend the rest of the ride in complete, suffocating silence._

_The car finally stops somewhere and Mycroft is whisked away. One of Mycroft's men uncuffs him from the car, asking him roughly if he requires the loo or water and then he is pushed into an interrogation room with a two-sided mirror inside. The door is locked and he is left alone with an empty desk and a chair. He realizes how fucked he is and has no choice but to sit down._

_He and Sherlock never considered, let alone discussed the possibility of something going wrong. He has no idea what to tell people._

_God, for a genius with unlimited criminal knowledge loaded into his brain, Sherlock is incredibly stupid- shoot a guy in front of the police?!... Where they will find a stolen laptop with the nation’s secrets?!... With John’s very illegal gun, ta very much. God, they are screwed._

_John sits and frets and for the life of him, can’t think of a single strategy. The image of Sherlock getting kicked down, his teeth cutting his lips, blood colouring his chin… His mind helpfully supplies other images, such as a cracked open skull, the blood-soaked curls and unmoving ice blue eyes…_

_John realizes that he is shaking and he puts his head between his knees, trying to take deep breaths. He hasn’t had an episode in ages. No point of starting one here, of all places._

_He doesn’t know how long he stays there, trying to regulate his breaths but he is surprised when the door pushes open and an unfamiliar officer is looking down at him._

_“You can go now, Dr.Watson. You are advised not to take trips out of the country in case you are required for further questioning,” the officer informs him._

_“I didn’t say anything,” he says stupidly._

_She looks at him kindly, then shakes her head. “Go home, Dr. Watson.”_

_John is bewildered when he finds out he is still in London. He is somewhere between Angelo’s and his old clinic. He doesn’t know where to go. Is he being followed? Will Magnussen’s men be after them, now?_

_He must look utterly lost when he feels another presence next to him. It’s Anthea. By the look she is giving him, she must have said his name quite a few times now._

_“John,” Anthea asks him again, “Do you need a ride?”_

_She knows my name, John thinks. And doesn’t know if he is supposed to laugh or not._

_A look of concern crosses Anthea’s face. She turns towards the driver of the limo, “Take him to home,” Anthea orders._

_To say Mary is surprised when she finds John at the door, would be an understatement. She has long since arrived home and having had time to change out of her Christmas clothes, remove her make-up and is now holding an icepack to her head._

_“Well, apparently I’m lucky,” Mary lifts an eyebrow, and frowns, “What happened?”_

_John looks at her and sees that Sherlock was right about Billy- she seems a bit green around the edges, but otherwise fine._

_“Sherlock- he-” He pauses and but sees no any harm in telling her, “He killed Magnussen.”_

_Mary drops the icepack to the counter and she sits down next to him, on the couch. “He did?”_

_John looks at her light, over-eager eyes and reminds himself that the wife he has chosen is not actually a nurse. This is her day job. “Magnussen- he had nothing. He had just- knowledge. Like in his mind,” John makes a gesture mimicking the thing Sherlock does when he is in his mind place._

_“So, Sherlock killed him,” Mary says softly._

_“They took him-” John twists his fingers and feels everything crashing down on him, “I don’t know where…” He chokes out._

_Mary looks down at him. She takes his hand, pulling him up. “Come on, John. You are in shock.”_

_The house looks strange. He can’t imagine living here for almost two years. It’s all Mary- Mary’s couch. Mary’s kitchen. She is so heavily pregnant– she is having trouble turning the tight corners of the table, now._

_A warm tea appears in his palm and Mary sits down opposite him. Her eyes fix on his, now, with an air of complete calmness. “What’s going to happen now?”_

_John tries to get himself to drink the tea. He suddenly remembers that he has been talked to, given some important information, just before the car stopped and Mycroft got out. He remembers being worried that Sherlock was going to be shot like a dog. “I think- they are going to exile him- Mycroft said- to somewhere in eastern Europe? For- six months?” John feels so confused and unsure- it is like everything is outside his reach, like a bubble, “Why- why so short?” He asks Mary, hoping for a clarification._

_Mary’s eyes are gentle but full of pity._

_John can’t understand why._

_“It’s probably standard procedure, with MI5,” Mary answers him, kindly, “I’m sure he will be fine.”_

_John nods, grateful. He feels cold to the bone and his eyes are strangely blurry._

_“Oh John,” Mary sighs and takes him by his arm, “Come on. You need your sleep. It’s almost two am.”_

_It’s weird. He easily finds his favourite shirt and bottoms he prefers for sleep. He forgot about the things he'd left in here, unpacked. He undresses on autopilot. Mary brings him a glass of water and a familiar orange bottle, shaking out two of his pills. He hasn’t had to use them since for ever, since- since when Sherlock was dea-_

_He swallows them. And puts his head to his pillow._

_Mary sits down next to him and gently caresses his arm. “It’s okay, John. I promise. Everything is going to be okay.”_

_John blinks. His eyelids grow heavier. He can hear Mary leaving the bedroom, getting on her phone, mumbling to it from the other side of the flat._

_He doesn’t dream. In the morning, he wakes up when he feels Mary’s hand on his head._

_“John, I have an appointment. Would you like to come?”_

_John nods, feeling unattached to the world, drifting. Of course he would. It’s his child too. He couldn’t go with her, before. Before Mary had shot Sherlock. And Sherlock had shot Magnussen._

_The doctor is an older, gentle, brown lady with age spots on her cheeks._

_“Mr. and Mrs. Watson, isn’t it? I’m so glad you could make it this time, Doctor Watson. Now, your tests look fine but let’s see if we can see what it is hiding, now.”_

_Mary laughs with a practised smile as the technician starts up the ultrasound machine. As the heart beat comes out, her eyes start to fill and she blinks at the blurry black and white images on the screen. “Is everything alright?” She looks up with fear._

_The good doctor smiles at her. “Everything looks fine, Mrs. Watson. Would you like me to tell you its gender?”_

_Mary grasps John’s hand. “What is it?”_

_“It’s a girl,” The brown eyes kindly inform her, “It’s a little girl.”_

_“Oh,” Mary looks overjoyed and suddenly she is crying. John looks at the black and white bundle on the screen, moving in his wife’s belly and tries to summon some enthusiasm. A little girl. Suddenly he too, feels like crying. Everything he has ever learned about babies pop out into his brain. He is suddenly worried._

_“She- she is healthy?” He croaks out, “Everything is in order?”_

_“Don’t you worry, Dr. Watson,” He doesn’t even know her name but he is grateful for her doctoring skills, “In a month or so- you are going to have a beautiful daughter. You better start thinking names!” She winks at them and hands him a picture of his daughter._

_Mary continues to cry a bit longer, then laughs, wipes her tears from her face and the gel from her belly. Thanking the doctor she lifts herself up off the table. She does all this with complete efficiency, while John is stuck in his thoughts next to changing room tracing the ultrasound picture of his daughter. He feels like he's wrapped in bubble wrap so he doesn’t first hear Mary’s call to him._

_“James?” he finally hears her as Mary comes out of the changing room. She stands, fixing her coat, “James, could you get me my bag, please?”_

_He sees where she’s left it, next to the exam table. He grabs it and automatically hands it to her. Then, he suddenly feels an ice cold shiver run through his body. The ultrasound picture in his left hand spasms._

_Mary puts on her scarf, takes his hand and smiles at him. “You are coming?”_

_She chatters all the way to home._

_“Hey, you okay?” She asks, once they are out of the car, her voice is taken a kind note._

_“I’m fine,” he hears himself answering her, his voice hoarse, “You go ahead.”_

_She disappears inside their house._

_John takes a deep breath and forces his right leg to move._

_An excruciating pain shoots through his hip, down to his toes. He desperately grabs the railing with both of his hands, almost bending it. He limps all the way up the stairs to the kitchen, and after finding his paracetamol and he swallows two at once._

 

***

 

In 221B, Sherlock is pacing like a caged animal. He sees John absentmindedly kneading his leg, he jerks to a dead stop.

“Stop doing that,” he orders.

John moves his hands to the arms of the chair. “It’s fine- it’s fine, Sherlock.”

“Of course it’s fine, I _fixed_ it,” Sherlock throws a harsh look to the offending leg.

“Yes, you did,” John allows, his voice soft.

Sherlock continues his pacing, now more agitated than ever. “You are most probably wrong, as always. Research suggests that reproductive hormones affect a woman’s brain and up to 80 per cent of pregnant women report suffering memory lapses.”

“I know,” John says, placatingly.

“I mean _James- John_ \- what does it matter?” All the junk, the litter on the desk unfortunately become Sherlock’s target to be stirred. “I call Graham all the names, most of the time.”

“It’s _Greg_ ,” John says patiently, “And yes, unfortunately, you do.”

Sherlock stops unearthing god-knows-what from all over the flat and looks him in the eye, “You did have sex, right? Before the wedding, the exact date? _Of course you did_ ,” He snorts, not waiting for John’s answer, “I mean- the woman shot me because she didn’t want you to _leave her_ , that’s _some_ dedication. Why would she cheat on you- well except of course, all the evidence shows that you are clearly obsessed with me but some people find that an attractive quality, mostly your readers, generally our fandom-”

John takes a deep breath and locks his hands in front of him, his whole body tensed up. “Sherlock, I _don’t know_. I don’t know if she was just _confused_. Or that if she _lied_. I don’t know who AGRA is, I don’t know why an ex-assassin chose to be in _my clinic_ \- chose _me_. I don’t know if our meeting was planned, I don’t know if she was working for someone else. I don’t know. I just don’t know.” John’s breath is coming out quite harsh now, “And- and it pisses me off because- if I hasn't been so stupid- if I knew-”

“John,” Sherlock is appalled. He lets go off papers he is waving around and goes to kneel in front of him, cradling his shoulders.

John laughs, blinks out his tears, a bitter smile appears at the corner of his mouth. “The _worst_ thing is, she could be _mine_. It could be a simple error by Mary. Among everything else going on- with, with her- with us… I will never be able to trust my daughter’s mother, ever again. Mary could hold my own daughter hostage. I don’t know which one I prefer.”

Sherlock considers the options. “We’ll need a blood sample from you and her,” he says, finally, “Molly could do the test.”

John bites his lower lip and nods, unable to face him any longer. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “It’s not your fault.”

John takes his hand and squeezes it, “It partially is. I- in the wedding, I remember thinking- when you told us… first thought that popped into my mind; _God, how am I supposed to go to Sherlock now_.”

Sherlock is quiet. “We would have found a way. Mrs. Hudson loves babies.”

John smiles a bit, but his face is ashen. “It- it took a long time- for me, to be- to be comfortable with the idea. And now- I don’t even know…”

“John,” Sherlock stops him quite insistently, “John- you are a wonderful man. Any part of _you_ \- of _your_ life- I would be _honoured_ to share it with you. And if- if that’s not the case, for this time…” Sherlock pauses and a bit of uncertainty comes to his features. He continues more quietly, “We wouldn’t be working until we are dead. I’d like to retire much before then.”

“Retire?” John asks wiping his eye, looking very much surprised.

Sherlock nods, “Yes. I always wanted to study the bees and I can’t do that in the city.”

A half strangled laughter comes out of John’s chest, John looks unsure whether to laugh or cry. “Are you? Serious?”

“Quite serious. And um- if you ever consider…” Sherlock trails off, now definitely uncomfortable, he fidgets a bit, “I am not opposed to children, John. If they are to be yours, so be it.”

John lets out a wet laugh. “Oh god… you don’t want an army of mini geniuses? Little Einsteins and Mozarts?”

“No geniuses,” Sherlock quickly inserts, “Or freaks. Just… children. Loved unconditionally.”

John quietens, looking at him with gentle, unfortunately insightful gaze.

Sherlock clears his throat. “You would be a wonderful father, no matter what.”

Fresh tears seem to spring into John’s eyes, he struggles to fight them back. “Thank you,” he whispers, “That. That means a lot.”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock says softly, “As long as you are not opposed to dogs.”

John giggles, sniffling. “I am not,” he smiles, “Are we also getting one?”

Sherlock grins at him and opens his mouth.

Both of their phones chime with a message. Sherlock’s is closer.

 

**Who falls but doesn't break, and who breaks but doesn't fall?**

 

John gets his phone from the kitchen. He looks disturbed.

Two more messages add to the queue by his anonym sender.

 

**The answer is simple, Mr. Holmes.**

**It’s time we met.**

 

“Sherlock-? Sherlock what does this mean-”

Sherlock grasps John’s phone too.

 

**A father's child and a mother's child, yet no one's son.**

**Who am I?**

 

It’s the same sender.

Sherlock gives him back his phone, his fingers urgently bringing up the number he needs. “Call Mary, now.”

A shadow of unease pass over John’s features as he waits the phone to connect. He shakes his head, “She's not answering. Sherlock?... Is this Moriarty?”

Sherlock mutters to himself, falling down to his armchair.

“Sherlock!”

“No, _John_ -” Sherlock snaps at him, a manic look frozen in his face, “How many times do I have to tell you?!”

“Well, forgive me for not believing that easily!” John retorts back with anger, “It’s not like one or two people I knew faked their own death.”

“Moriarty. IS. _DEAD!_ ” Sherlock roars. “This must be his fake- his copycat… nothing more than a ghost!”

John is constantly redialling now. He shakes his head more rigorously, finally getting his jacket. “I have to go- I _have to_ check on her.”

Sherlock jumps out of his chair, abandoning all efforts of concentration and clamps down on John’s arm. “No! It’s most certainly a trap- you don’t even have your gun!”

John looks at him, taking deep breaths to fight off a full attack of panic. “I can’t just sit here- I have to look for her!”

Sherlock clutches his face between both of his palms. “Please, John,” he begs, “Let me help.”

John struggles through an internal fight. Within less than a minute, he sighs in defeat, dropping his jacket.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and immediately calls up a number.

“Lestrade,” He commands without preamble, “I need you to check John’s house. _Now_.”

 

***

 

  
They spend the next half hour in complete silence. Sherlock is now dressed in one of his impeccable suits and he is continuously pacing the flat.

John tries to keep out of his way, tries to let him have a space to think- _to simply think, John!_ \- but he can’t help but jiggle his leg now, his nerves are shot to hell. He’s read the messages over and over again.

They are riddles. That’s for sure. Who else but one person- _one very dead person_ to send them riddles, for God’s sake?

He is thinking of getting that Swiss Army knife from his secret stash upstairs- something- anything to use as a weapon…

Sherlock’s phone rings and they both jump.

Sherlock does not let it finish its tune. “Yes?”

Lestrade’s voice, his weary, careful voice comes out of the speakers.

“Sherlock, is John with you?” he asks grimly.

“Yes- what is it?” Sherlock’s eyes jump to John’s.

“Am I on speaker?”

“What have you found, Greg?” Sherlock cuts him off, now very impatient.

“Take me off the speaker,” Greg insists.

“Just TELL US!” He yells.

“ _For the love of god_ \- Sherlock,” The Detective Inspector’s voice, made metallic over the phone hisses harshly, “ _Take me off the speaker_ , _now_.”

Sherlock looks at John as he touches the screen and puts the phone back up to his ear. Sherlock’s face is unchanged. He listens. He asks, “Was there a body?”

In silence, there is only a tiny echo of words. Sherlock looks agitated. “Then how can you be sure?!” He yells back at the phone, “How much blood? It might not even be hers!”

A feeling of rushing blood fills his ears.

“John doesn’t want to _hear that you're sorry!_ ” Sherlock roars back.

It’s like suddenly someone turned on a tap- a noisy, echoing shower inside his head. His knees feel weak.

“ _Find his wife_ , now!” Sherlock’s hand shakes with anger, his grip threatening to crush the phone.

“Jesus…” John mumbles.

Sherlock sharply looks up, abandoning his phone to quickly catch John as his knees buckle. “John? John! _MRS.HUDSON!_ ” he screams down the stairs.

John feels himself being gently lowered to the cold floor, or maybe he is the one who is cold- and everything goes a bit fuzzy around the edges. His vision whitens out just a second- only a second, though, he can still feel Sherlock’s hands over his arms and his neck- but it must be longer than a second because he can hear Mrs. Hudson’s gentle voice now, very closer.

“Oh, what is going on, Sherlock? Is he _okay?_ ” Mrs. Hudson frets.

“Give me your ridiculous salts, now. Did you bring them?” Sherlock’s deep voice commands.

“Yes, yes- give him a minute-” She scolds. John can feel a cool compress, gently tapping away his brow and a sharp, acidic smell at his nose.

He recoils a bit, finds himself on the floor of 221B, his head at Sherlock Holmes’ lap.

His head is absolutely _pounding_. He moans involuntarily, shielding his eyes from the light.

“John. John listen to me,” Impossibly gentle fingers are caressing his face, “I will find them. I made a vow to you, remember?” Sherlock reminds him.

John buries his face to the warm darkness, not wanting to surface to the reality yet- not until this headache eases.

“Get him some paracetamol and sugary tea,” Sherlock quietly asks and Mrs. Hudson is off to the kitchen. He gathers up his phone from where he abandoned to the floor, careful not to move John even a bit.

He unlocks it and sends two messages.

 

To: Lestrade

**Send me everything. – SH**

To: Mycroft

**Redbeard. Come quickly. – SH**

 

 

 

 


	2. give your all to me and you shall have all of me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is lying on the couch, now. He doesn’t remember how or when he was moved here, but Sherlock is sitting next to him, taking his pulse with one hand and checking out his phone with the other.
> 
> “Deep breaths John, your blood pressure is still too low-” Sherlock comments, “Eat this, slowly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is even longer than previous one, because I've had to add one more extra chapter to entire story. Lots of relationship dealing in this, so be prepared!

**ii.           give your all to me and you shall have all of me**

 

 

John is lying on the couch, now. He doesn’t remember how or when he was moved here, but Sherlock is sitting next to him, taking his pulse with one hand and checking out his phone with the other.

“Deep breaths John, your blood pressure is still too low-” Sherlock comments, “Eat this, slowly.”

“I’m fine,” John tries to get up and feels such a strong head rush that he has to lie back down. He takes the salty cracker Sherlock is currently pushing towards his mouth and starts chewing slowly.

Sherlock is zooming and browsing many pictures it seems. John purposely avoids looking at them until he feels more like himself and less like death warmed over, then he sits up slowly.

“And drink,” Sherlock murmurs, “Mrs. Hudson has gone downstairs to bring you soup.”

John takes the offered cup. It’s warm tea turned almost white with the amount of added honey and milk. The opposite of how he takes. He drinks it anyway.

“It’s _the daughter_ ,” he says a minute later, feeling slightly panic-stricken. It must be all the blood flowing back into his brain that allows him to suddenly able to solve it, now. “The riddle they sent me- the answer is the daughter. He has my daughter, Moriarty.”

Sherlock lowers his phone and looks at him. Slowly, he takes the shaking cup from John and replaces it with his own hand, squeezing John’s fingers. “John, do you remember Baskerville?”

“I- yes, of course.”

“Do you remember how your brain deceived you- how fear and environmental stimuli worked against your ability to reason?” Sherlock falters, “I mean, if you look beyond the fact that it was I who put you in that regretful situation - but John, you _must_ believe me when I say this. _Moriarty is dead_. Now, look at this blood,” Sherlock shows him the photo on his phone. “No, really _look_. See the patterns? This is _not_ a murder of a woman eight months pregnant. Someone designed this to create a distraction. And it _worked_ , John. Look at you, you are practically incapable of rational thought now. Think! Messages. _Riddles_. Someone is trying to distract us.”

John takes a shaky breath, looking closer to the photos that Lestrade sent. “That’s- that’s not hers?”

“It’s not hers,” Sherlock assures him, “Mary is too heavy to be moved like that. I suspect this might not even be human- I can’t be sure of course but the texture-”

“Okay,” John clears his throat, “Okay, where is she then?”

“Yes, where?” Sherlock gains his usual thinking pose, “The question is mostly _why_ , really… She was dismissive of me back in the plane and clearly did not approve your concern for my habits. So _why_ didn’t she call you? We are assuming she feels some form of love for you and probably obsession too- yet she did not call you back try and potentially change your mind about holing up in here. Mary never hesitated to use manipulation- she should have been protesting,” John feels his headache coming back as he watches that knowing gleam forming in Sherlock’s eyes, “No. She _knew_. She knew someone was coming for her.”

“What?” John exclaims.

“She needed _you_ out of her way. Oh, Mrs. Watson, what have you done now?”

As Sherlock goes back to pacing the flat and reading out his messages, John tries to be patient. “Sherlock- I don’t understand. You need to explain to me, okay?”

“The message, the video message, John!” Sherlock is way beyond excited now, “Who could have benefited of hijacking London’s finest for a few minutes? Someone who wanted me back- or who wanted the attention my return would draw! But, who? Who?” Sherlock starts murmuring, “ _Who falls but doesn't break, and who breaks but doesn't fall?_ The answer is simple, really but what the night and day circle has to do with it-”

“Well, _you_ did,” John sighs and rubs his eyes.

Sherlock freezes, “What?”

John feels stupid. “You jumped- but didn’t break. And… I guess, Moriarty broke but he didn’t fall?”

The manic light comes back on in Sherlock’s eyes, “Oh John, you are _amazing_ ,” he exclaims and grabs John’s face to kiss him senseless.

John is too dazzled to notice that the door is open and Mrs. Hudson is standing with a tray of soup and giddy expression on her face. “Oh- you boys are doing that now?” She pointedly lifts the tray with a cheeky grin, “I couldn’t knock…”

“Moriarty must have an accomplice!” Sherlock continues as if nothing interrupted him, “He even told me- a _pet_ , he said. He _had_ to pass on all his assets to someone. Even back at the pool, he was too ready to be dead. There has to be a _mate_. Another _spider_.”

John tries to catch up with Sherlock’s thoughts while forcing himself to ignore Mrs. Hudson’s pointed looks. “So… do you think Mary is running away from- this… this person? But why?”

Sherlock suddenly stops spinning around the room as if he remembered something important. He takes John by the arm, moving him over to sit down at the table, in front of the soup tray. “I think she is drawing him in,” he says quietly.

“Drawing hi- she’s _pregnant_ ,” John chokes out his last words, trying to concentrate on not being sick at the sight of the food in front of him, his appetite lost forever. He pushes the tray back.

Sherlock slowly pushes it back in place. “John, you have to eat,” he says gently.

“I can’t-” John shakes his head, both of his hands under the table now, like hiding them could stop him from being forced to eat, “Sherlock, not now.”

“Oh, John,” From the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson brings a refreshed cup of tea as well, “It is your favourite. You have just fainted, dear. You clearly need the energy.”

 

***

 

The army doctor has one fist, kneading his thigh, squeezing the muscle like it could help ease the pain- the more Mrs. Hudson speaks, the more agitated he becomes. Sherlock feels anger, pure, black tinted _anger_ and yes, fear- cold hearted fear and despair against the sight of it- the pain has a clear pattern but it’s trickier now, Sherlock can’t just take John out for a run and hope for a fix.

“Please, just-” Sherlock snaps, then takes a deep breath to calm his tone and reaches under the table, taking the affronting hand and squeezing it with all his might. He hopes to snap John out of it.

It works. For a moment, John is too perplexed and both the tremor in his hand and the spasm-like movements of his leg stop.

Sherlock simply asks, “I can’t concentrate while you are suffering. _Please_ , John.”

Feeling the charged air, Mrs. Hudson removes herself from the conversation and brings the few cups lying around to the kitchen before going downstairs, giving them a bit of privacy.

Sherlock doesn’t look away.

John doesn’t take his hand back. “It’s fine,” he murmurs.

“It is certainly _not_ ,” Sherlock quietly says, “But I can see you struggling with it, so let me help. Have your soup.”

Reluctantly, John grabs another cracker, soaking it with the soup, chewing it slowly. With tiny moves, Sherlock draws his chair closer to his, imitating John’s move from the morning. He lets go of John’s hand, so that he could have both hands free. Hesitantly he puts his left arm on the back of John’s chair, tracing John's spine with the back of his fingers.

John is finished eating quicker than he expects him to be even though there is still more than third of the soup in the bowl. Jon turns towards him now, and he once again takes his hand.

“Is this going to be a thing, now?” John can’t help but croak.

“Maybe,” Sherlock says softly, tracing John’s knuckles with his thumb, “If that’s fine?”

“More than fine,” John admits and closes his eyes when Sherlock starts to gently knead the nape of his neck.

Sherlock will never underestimate felines ever, again. Clearly, they are cleverest of the domesticated subspecies. It works wonders for the tension lines on John’s lovely face.

The door downstairs open and shut and there are hurried footfalls on the seventeen steps. “ _Sherlock?_ ” Mycroft’s anxious yell gets louder as he nears the top.

Sherlock only has time to squeeze John’s spasming hand inside his as his big brother bursts into their sitting room, looking completely disheveled.

Mycroft takes one look at them, both frozen within close proximity to each other at the sitting room desk, before dropping forward, “Good God,” his hands go to his knees as he breathes out in relief, “Your despicable timing-”

Sherlock feels all the tension return to John’s body. John quickly withdraws his hand as he stands, forcing Sherlock to stand as well. John’s hand has returned, to once again knead his leg.

“Um- it’s um- it’s mostly _my fault_ \- I, we- we um, received a message- and-” John stutters and now, Sherlock is _really annoyed._ He stubbornly grabs John’s hand who only struggles against his hold for a moment, before he quickly surrenders.

Mycroft takes another, longer look at them, his eyes mostly on John. When he talks, his words are very careful, “You’ll have to excuse my brusqueness, it was not my intention to be so… crude. From my brother’s message, I expected to find you both… mostly dead.”

Mycroft takes a moment to put his umbrella down, walking slowly towards them but looking at John. “A reality might still come true and this is most certainly, a very inappropriate moment for this but John, I cannot express how _delighted_ I am at the news. Congratulations, both.”

And he hugs John.

“I- _oh_.” John is utterly flabbergasted. His bones relax as Mycroft pats him affectionately on the back before drawing quickly away.

Sherlock is utterly shocked. He is still holding on to John’s hand. Seemingly not as daring as he is with John, Mycroft lifts a gloved hand and squeezes Sherlock’s shoulder. “Alright, little brother?” he gently asks.

Sherlock is blinking a lot. _Ridiculously_ a lot. He clears his throat a few times, yet still croaks, “Um, y- Yes, of course, I-”

Sherlock watches as John rolls his eyes before he is suddenly being pushed into Mycroft’s arms. Their hug is brief, but strong. John uses the opportunity to quickly rub over his own eyes and nose.

Mycroft smiles at both of them a bit, before sitting down in John’s armchair. “Okay. So,” he asks, “What do you need me for?”

“You need to find Mary, now,” Sherlock says.

 

***

 

John sighs tiredly and sits down on Sherlock’s bed while the detective is going through his wardrobe.

“When do you think we’ll hear from him?” John asks.

Sherlock says, “It won’t take long,” and upends his sock drawer, revealing a secret compartment underneath it, where a handgun is taped.

John palms his face, “Why am I not surprised?” he murmurs and takes it from him, checking for the chamber for bullets and safety, “I searched that drawer many times, you know.”

Sherlock weakly smiles, “Yes, but you were looking for drugs and cigarettes, weren’t you?”

“Whose this is?” John demands.

“It was mine,” Sherlock quietly answers, sitting down next to him, “I needed one- for when I was away… it will do you good with that knife of yours.”

John stays silent and puts it on the nightstand for now, next to their phones. He swallows and looks Sherlock in the eye. “So where are the drugs, then?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer.

John leans against the headboard and rubs his eyes. “Sherlock…”

“I need them to be _there_ , John,” Sherlock replies defensively, his fingers picking out a thread on the spread, “I promised you- I’m not going to… I just _need_ them there.”

“On the plane, you said- something, let me remember it exactly,” John removes his hands from his face and looks upon him, “I think it was, ‘ _Controlled usage is not usually fatal and abstinence is not_...”

“I know what I said,” Sherlock cuts him off, looking vaguely annoyed.

“Surely you do not believe that?” John says, trying to keep his voice calm and to not aggravate him further, “Sherlock- even with the cigarettes, you can barely resist. Even if such thing existed with class A drugs and yes- there is still a high probability of you dying, even with long periods of abstinence. But I would hate to think that it happened because you thought you were in control.”

“Can we not talk about this?” Sherlock demands, his face now stubborn and there is a hole on the bedspread now, where the loose thread used to be.

John leans forward and hesitantly, takes his hand. “Tell me why you need them,” he quietly asks, “I’m not your brother, I’m not going to force you to reveal them- but surely, you don’t need them to ‘enhance’ your way of thinking? You already have the most magnificent brain I’ve ever seen… it’s like fireworks up there, every time… surely you don’t need more fanfare?”

John’s fingers gently comb through the untamed curls and some of the tension from Sherlock’s face melts away and he leans forward into John’s caress. “It’s not for fanfare,” he murmurs, “It’s for the quiet.”

“Oh,” John falters. Then silently pulls Sherlock forward, who snuggles up to him like an overgrown cat, nose on John’s collarbone. “Does nothing else help?” When Sherlock lets out a long-suffering sigh, he quickly adds, “I mean like something other than psychiatric drugs.”

“Do you want me to take up yoga?” Sherlock grumbles sarcastically.

“How about sex?” John counters bluntly, “Does that help?”

Sherlock answers that – or more correctly, pointedly does _not_ answer that but buries his face father into John’s neck.

“Sherlock?” John quietly pokes at him, “Come on love, you can tell me- it’s okay if that does nothing for you, it’s common, you know.”

Sherlock mumbles something incomprehensible into his shoulder.

“Sorry, didn’t get that?” John looks down at him and sees fierce resentment on Sherlock’s face, to his absolute surprise.

“I said, _I wouldn’t know_ ,” Sherlock grits out and refuses to face him. “And now you are going to _absolutely_ insufferable.”

“ _What?_ ” John is shocked. He draws back to get a better look at his face, not sure if Sherlock is serious or not. “What do you mean you _wouldn’t_ know? You were fondling me _quite_ heavily this morning.”

“I can also defuse a bomb in theory- it doesn’t mean I’m an _expert_ at it.” Sherlock grouses unhappily.

John needs to be quite clear. “You’re a _virgin_?” he demands, insistently.

“Oh for Christ’s sake…” Sherlock rolls his eyes and makes a move to get up.

John grabs him firmly. “God, Sherlock, come here- I’m not making fun of you, I swear. I thought that had been your brother just trying to rile you up. How is that _even_ possible? You’re _gorgeous_.”

“I am also an _arrogant, pompous prick_ as you, yourself have, quite frequently pointed out,” Sherlock replies, “And believe or not, your admiration of my skills _still_ is very rare- people do generally tell me to piss off most of the time, if not take it further. It does not make one popular when you spout off the affairs people are having at the school.”

John can’t help but let out a chuckle, “Yeah well, uni was no fun and daisies for everyone else either. I can’t believe- you are an unstoppable force- surely… if you wanted to...”

Sherlock sighs, “I didn’t want to,” he admits. “When I was a kid... I used to have a dog.”

“Redbeard?” John asks quietly.

Sherlock is surprised. “Yes- how do you...”

“Hm,” John says and nudges him to continue.

“He died when I was young. They told me that he was sent to a farm- they didn’t tell me that he was so sick they had to put him down. I was quite devastated when I found out. You need to understand,” Sherlock says in a low voice, “I used to be quite… worse, when I was a child. Mycroft was the only one who could sort of control me.”

John tuts non-committedly. Sherlock continues, “And when he left for school, I was having anxiety attacks, almost every day. Even the smallest thing could set me off- they- they taught me about the solar system at the school. Mummy tells me that I went completely crazy looking at the night sky that day. I was trying to catalogue every star up there and when I couldn’t manage, it made me quite mad.”

John makes a painful noise, “Is that why you deleted it?” he asks softly.

“Yes,” Sherlock murmurs, “Which is a shame because I was quite enjoying it as well. I wanted to be a pirate, I needed to know about the stars. They thought maybe having a dog would help. And it did, I was much calmer for a long time. Redbeard was a good dog, he knew when I was getting distressed and he would snuggle up to me. It would distract me and… I would be able to pull it together. When… when I found out about him, I- snapped.”

John squeezes his hand hard.

 

***

 

Sherlock swallows. It makes his skin itchy telling John about all these painful memories. “They had to call Mycroft back home. He- he was already teaching me you know, to- to control myself. He never had a problem with _people_ and had tried to teach me to… not care as much. _Caring is not an advantag_ e, he used to say. It worked for a while, to not care… but I was much worse as a teenager. Then someone lent me their bong and I discovered that drugs helped.”

John seems to have a sixth sense when it comes to him. “Someone?”

“Victor Trevor,” Sherlock murmurs, “That’s another story.”

John draws him even closer and kisses his eyebrow. “Am I your Redbeard, now? You put that in your message to Mycroft and he came like the house was on fire.”

“I would be more than devastated if something happened to you, John,” Sherlock says quietly, “But it’s the code, yes.”

“Shall we have another, then?” John suggests, “If you ever feel the need to… I don’t know, to be quiet. Or to talk yourself out of taking the drugs or- or just that you need a snuggle, just say _Gladstone_ and I will come to you, alright?”

“Gladstone?” Sherlock asks, confused.

“It was Harry’s bulldog pup,” John admits, “The little monster hated me. I still have scars on my ankles.”

Sherlock lets out a laugh. John smiles a bit.

“Thank you,” Sherlock adds quietly.

“You are so very much welcome,” John murmurs to him, “It’s no bother to me, really. I would love to know how to help you.”

“You always do, though,” Sherlock sighs.

John falls silent. “Does this… us, being… like- like this now? Is that helpful?”

“I like it even more when you do the thing with my hair,” Sherlock replies.

John lets out a soft laugh and promptly, does so. “I meant, as a- couple. Would you be… more comfortable if we went back to being friends?”

“No,” Sherlock answers quite strongly, “I hated seeing you date all those insignificant women.”

“Good,” John murmurs, “I was _this close_ to braining Janine, myself. And she is quite lovely.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock sighs, “I did like Mary,” he quietly admits, “I thought- if I was going to lose you anyway- at least she seemed to tolerate me.”

There is a long silence after that, until John manages to gather himself up. “She, um-” He clears his throat, “She- she saw me, after the fall, alright? That’s why I was… why I was quite insistent about her, let’s say. I was a wreck back then and… she was kind to me. She encouraged me to start seeing Ella again. And- and to keep up with my meds… to sleep. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t shake the thought that… that you did something like that and as your closest friend, I- I let it happen. That you died without knowing… how much I- how much I…”

“John,” Sherlock looks quite sad now. “I’m really sorry.”

“I know, I know- I’m not trying to… I, I understand it now.” John swallows, “But I didn’t know then, and I am trying to tell you why she… why she mattered that much to me. And why I took it so hard… when she wasn’t… who she said she was. I knew… I knew how I felt about you even then and I was trying to learn how to live with that. I was quite convinced for a long time that you were really faking it- but then a year passed by and I thought I was going to go mad, it made me quite… alarmed. I needed to leave it behind, that’s why I… I couldn’t even see Mrs. Hudson. And now, here we are now, I'm making the same mistakes…” John sighs, “I couldn’t even talk to you until you actually decided to off yourself for real, what does that say about me?”

Sherlock is suddenly very quiet. “Are you saying that Mary knew how you felt… from the beginning?”

John snorts. “Well, I did _not_ make a confession…”

“So she _did_ know…” Sherlock cuts him off, contemplating.

John kind of shrugs, “Probably,” he says, “I was not very subtle. Why, why does it matter?” He frowns.

Sherlock sits up and then brings his fingers together. “I don’t know,” he says as pieces start to fall into place. “But it does, somehow. Why play us, until the very end?”

“Play us?” John asks, confused.

 

_I’ll burn… the **h e a r t** out of you._

_First mistake, **J a m e s** Moriarty isn’t a man at all– _

_he’s a spider, a **s p i d e r** at the centre of a web…_

_But look how you **c a r e** about John Watson…_

_Save souls now!_

_Saint or **S i n n e r**?_

**_J a m e s_ ** _or John?_

_You don’t tell him._

_Sherlock?..._

_You don’t tell **J o h n**._

_Jim **M o r i a r t y**. _

_Hi._

 

“Sherlock, you are _doing_ it again,” John complains.

Sherlock shakes his head, frustrated, “We- we need another code for when there is something I can’t tell you and that I need you to just trust me!”

John points a finger in his face, “No. Nope. _Nada_ \- you know why? Because I _already_ have a code for that and it’s called _Reichenbach_ and _Barts’ roof_ and bloody _Moriarty_ \- it’s where everything has gone wrong!” Sherlock’s eyes slide back to his phone on the table and John grabs him by the arm, “Sherlock. You need to trust ME! I am a grown man- I killed people. I _can_ handle it.”

Sherlock scrabbles his own hair. “This is not- this is- God! I am _speculating_ , John. This is _speculation_!”

“Well bloody call it then! That didn’t stop you before, did it?!” John yells but is cut short by Sherlock’s phone.

Sherlock lunges at it. “Mycroft?”

Mycroft’s voice comes over the speakers, “Now, listen. I have some information. Yesterday, CCTV picked up a visual of a person leaving the house, around the time of her would-be murder.”

Sherlock throws John a look, “So Mary is alive.”

“And still quite pregnant, as that was a concern, I remember. I checked the files myself. She is cleverly disguised but it’s definitely her. I’m afraid I have more bad news, in regard of this recent… drama.”

“Tell us,” John says.

“We also checked your wired and wireless records and there seems to be some sort of communication coming from your house, John,” Mycroft pauses, then elaborates. “This line is heavily encrypted and the mere fact that we have not yet been able to crack it, could only suggest that it is used by foreign intelligence agents, namely friendly ones.”

“What?” John breaths out, “CIA?”

“Well, it’s not that far stretched, is it?” Mycroft sighs, “So you clearly see my concern.”

Sherlock groans, “ _Mycroft_ …”

His big brother’s very patient and very severe voice cuts him off. “Sherlock, listen to me. You both are far from stupid, despite what evidence and recent events suggest. Let me be very clear to you: The agent or the woman you have known as Mary Morstan was re-activated after what happened yesterday. She was immediately in contact with her old allies, starting at the moment of your imprisonment, Sherlock. Which itself suggests a connection to the message the national television has received,” Mycroft’s voice has gone a bit lighter but it is still dripping with sarcasm. “Now, this could be very good, you see. I’d say CIA is our most friendly option of national terrorism. I would love to have a chat and tea with them.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “For god’s sake Mycroft, surely you are not foolish enough to _suggest_ -”

“I _will_ suggest or even, quite dare to impose on you that _yes_ , you two will stay the _hell out of this_ ,” Mycroft angrily continues, “I can’t track her nor her source without exposing you two. I need you to be removed from equation, _immediately_.”

John looks at Sherlock who scoffs quite loudly.

Mycroft’s voice is sweet and deadly. “You are still a wanted criminal, dear little brother, in case that escaped your mind in the light of your newly acquired love affair. And John, I can’t have you near anyone or anything due to your clear association to Mrs. Watson. I will also remind you that the last time you two rushed off a half-baked plan, it took a message from an international criminal assumed dead, in order to get Sherlock back. I know you are quite daring in some ways, little brother, but I am sure that even you wouldn’t take the risk of having John arrested and put on trial with high treason. Our jury is unfortunately quite suggestible, as you might remember.”

There is silence on this end of the phone as Sherlock tries to school the storm of emotion from his face. He watches John lick his lower lip, before clearing his throat. “What- what would you have us to do?” he asks.

Mycroft breathes out in relief. “You need to leave this to me. I will move you to a safe house temporarily, while I locate Mary and bring her and the baby to you. And I will bring her to you, John. Please trust me.”

Sherlock lets out a defeated sigh.

“Anthea will be there in ten minutes. I will also arrange for Mrs. Hudson to visit her sister and call the detective inspector. He’ll take care of Miss Hooper, I’m sure. Be ready,” Mycroft says and the line goes dead.

John looks at Sherlock, unsure. “Are we really doing this?”

Sherlock rubs his eyes. “I hate to admit it- but he is right.”

“He is?” He can tell John is surprised at the admission.

Sherlock gets up and puts on his jacket. “Yes. This time. If my theory is correct, Mary is safer where she is more than anything we could ever do for her. She is under their protection. They must be reeling out the bait.”

“Are you sure?” John looks up at him.

_Too deep, Sherlock. Way too deep._

Sherlock closes his eyes and nods. “Yes.”

John sighs and gets up as well. “Are we the fish, then?”

“No,” Sherlock hands him the gun, “We are the bait.”

 

***

 

The poor residents of the Baker Street are startled by the sheer amount of volume coming out from a medium sized man, screaming his head off to a taller, long coated one. Are they the married ones? No- no, they are the _famous_ ones, you know, that detective and his blogger.

“I can’t _BELIEVE_ you,” John cries out, “My wife, my bloody _pregnant_ wife, Sherlock- you utter machine! Have you no sense of decency, no compassion at all?”

“I don’t _care_ -” Sherlock’s deep voice grumbles coldly, “And if you really do then go search for her! I have no time for your utter frivolities!”

“I will- some best friend you are!”

“OUT, you!” Mrs. Hudson shows up with a true to god, old fashioned broom and a fierce frown, “Worse tenants, you are! Don’t come back until you are both cooled off, you absolute boars! Oh my poor _ceiling_ …”

“Oh do shut up, Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock yells out.

John Watson storms out of 221B, kicks a nearby bike and marches down to the alley which connects to Baker Street.

Anthea is waiting for him inside the black car, parked inconspicuously to a corner.  

A moment later, Sherlock climbs up out of 221C to land on Mrs. Hudson’s dumpsters, turning his collar up and getting inside the car.

John grins. “How was it?”

Sherlock’s smile twitches, “Good, good, you’re improving. A little bit less drama, next time. That bike wasn’t necessary.”

John lifts his eyebrows, “I just really wanted to kick it.”

Sherlock laughs and they are off.

It’s almost night when they finally arrive at their destination. The car took many back alley routes, making sure to lose any tails. John has been dozing for the last half hour on Sherlock’s shoulder. Despite Sherlock’s gentle voice, he is still startled when he is woken.

“We’re here,” Sherlock squeezes his hand, “Come on.”

“Where is Anthea?” John blinks out sleepily.

“Who?” Sherlock asks, confused.

“What do you mean who- her…?” John tries to point the place where Anthea used to be, quite inefficiently.

Sherlock snorts, “Oh, her. She told you to call her that?”

“What’s her name, then?” John asks stupidly.

“Never mind that,” Sherlock grins as he gets out of the car and walks in the direction of the mansion.

And it is a mansion. John is feeling quite baffled now, when Mycroft said a safe house, he assumed it would be a dingy four corner flat. Certainly not _this_.

He catches up to Sherlock’s long strides, cold night air waking him up efficiently. “Where are we, again?” he asks.

“Mycroft’s house. Well, our house, really. My parents moved out of here when they decided to live in the country,” Sherlock answers, “Apparently it has more _charm_.”

“Oh,” John exclaims, “This is where you lived before, then?”

“Before I decided against fratricide and moved to 221B, yes.” Sherlock answers and opens up the doors with a five tiered passcode system.

John looks out at the manicured garden and ornate entrance to the house and murmurs, “You know what- I never really asked you about what is it that your parents do…”

Sherlock lets them in, “Not exactly correct. You did and I quite successfully avoided it.”

“Yes, that…” John frowns and looks around the grand foyer uniting two separate staircases, both supporting many original artworks. “Is that a bronze knight on a horse?”

Sherlock smirks, “There is a set of them in the drawing room.”

“Oh, Jesus-” John despairs and whisked away by an insistent Sherlock.

“Come on, let your middle-class sensibilities be offended later, you need to eat.”

Thankfully there is nobody around but the fires are lit in the dining hall and there is a five course meal waiting for them.

John takes a bite. It is still hot.

He makes himself wait to ask more questions until after Sherlock has inspected the security on the many windows. Despite all the mumbling they must meet his expectation because he soon sits next to John.

“So, um-” John mumbles, “Is Mycroft really the royalty, then?”

Sherlock snorts. “No. He would wish that, though. It would certainly make things easier for him.”

“Is there a reason you are avoiding the question then, or?...” John bites off a piece of bread. It is soft, white and delicious.

Sherlock sighs. “Mummy is quite clever, you see. She’s the one with the genes.”

“A mathematician, wasn’t she?” John continues to chew.

“Hmm, not quite,” Sherlock grabs his second baked potato from John’s plate. “Well officially, yes, unofficially she was quite famous in more… cryptographic skills, let’s put it that way.”

John’s fork is frozen half to his mouth. “What? How old is she- was she a _Bletchley Park girl?!_ ”

“Do not let her hear you say that, she’s not _that_ old,” Sherlock seems quite amused, “There was more to GC &CS after the war, you know.”

“ _Jesus Christ_ ,” John gives up on eating now, “Well, _that_ explains a lot. When were you going to tell me?!”

“What difference would that make- you are already all _Queen and Country_ , _Captain_ Watson,” Sherlock has a grin on his face and does not seem bothered at all by John’s fuss.

And he is making a fuss, he knows it.

“Alright, then,” John grumbles, “My mum used to be a teacher.”

“I know. And your father was some kind of military. You looked up to him, when you were younger- but it made things difficult in the house when your sister came out as gay. Your parents did not quite approve and you resented them for it.” Sherlock continues to eat quite serenely.

“Which was it- deduction or birth certificate?” John pointedly looks at him.

Sherlock has the grace to look a bit shamed, “Both,” he smiles, “I didn’t know about the bulldog though.”

John snorts.

“They do love me very much but also, were quite expectant of me even when I was a child,” Sherlock quietly adds, “I much preferred to spend my summers with _grand-mère_.”

“Is she still alive?” John asks softly.

Sherlock nods. “She has a house on the coast of south France. She e-mails me regularly.” At John’s surprise, he adds, “She was a chemist. The Periodic table on my bedroom wall used to be hers.”

“Well, I am glad I did not pick up professional rugby, now,” John grins, “And believe me, half of my mates thought I was off my rocker back then.”

“I’m sure we would have found a way to meet, even if you did,” Sherlock murmurs and offers a shy smile.

John feels a stupid, lovesick grin on his face and he can’t do anything to stop it. “Wouldn’t you have hated me on sight?”

“John Watson,” Sherlock says quite seriously, “In all universes, I would never be able to do anything but be hopelessly in love with you.”

It’s no surprise to either of them, when John abandons his dinner completely and leans over the table to kiss Sherlock until they are both senseless with it.

“Eat your dinner,” John clears his throat, his voice hoarse with passion, “Then show me this ridiculous mansion of yours, you amazing, silly, little man. And don't you dare call me a romantic ever again. You are a giant mush underneath all that cool and cheekbones. Not to worry though, I’ll take it to my grave.”

“Why the cheekbones- always with the cheekbones? It’s my face,” Sherlock murmurs, still quite pink from kissing.

John looks at him fondly, “It’s a lovely face, much like you, that’s why,” he says and kisses it again.

The house is ridiculous, as John predicted. It’s something out of a period drama. They even have servants’ quarters, which Sherlock assures him are empty- apparently Mycroft has people come during the day to do his bidding but nobody is staying over night.

“Show me your room,” John insists. He has been constantly on the look out for some childhood photos, but has so far, failed. Mycroft must have been an ugly baby; he hid them well.

“I haven’t been up there, in years,” Sherlock quietly protests, but still leads the way.

It’s a very nice room, with blue walls and lots of natural light, he predicts. Half of the ceiling is covered with glow-in-the-dark stars, in a very peculiar way or a very realistic way, he can't decide. There is a wide range of reading materials, starting from Mediterranean maritime history to advanced chemistry, and later, to criminal research, and yes, even to beekeeping. He was serious about the retirement, then.

John must find a way to get over his apiphobia, very soon.

On the desk he sees a very familiar clutter of chemistry equipment though in a more orderly fashion in here, now that Sherlock isn't currently using them. He also sees a red collar hung on the wall.

“No photos?” John finally gives in and asks.

Sherlock seems a bit embarrassed. “Do you really want to see them?”

“Are you kidding me? Of course.” John grins at him, “I bet Mycroft was cuddly back then.”

A smile spreads across Sherlock’s face and he gets up, “I never kept them but I’m sure somebody did. They must be at the library.”

A long walk and fifteen minutes later, John is pouring over the golden blackmail opportunity of his entire life. Mycroft was _both_ fat and ugly. Thankfully he grew into his unique features, but he can see why Sherlock keeps teasing his brother so cruelly. Mycroft had the cheeks and belly of a Renaissance Cherub.

Sherlock seems quite distracted and amused at the unexpected opportunity to revisit the past and doesn’t notice when John slips the other, slightly hidden albums out.

“Sherlock,” John says in a hushed voice, “Oh, love, you were _adorable_. God, look at your little face.”

Sherlock blushes up to his eyebrows.

If Mycroft was a Cherub, Sherlock was Tiny Tim. Dark black curls framed his rosy face. His big clear eyes looked overly large and his ears stuck out. He looked too serious even back then, except when he was playing with his older brother. There is a lovely shot of them building a very complicated looking railway system.

“This was Redbeard,” Sherlock points to another photo and John is taken away. They look simply adorable. A small grimy boy with bruised knees stands next to an overexcited dog with a pirate’s eye patch on its head. It’s a happy photo.

John looks over at the man nex to him and sees the child that used to be, looking sad but at peace. Making sure that Sherlock is watching him, he takes out the photo from the album.

“Do you mind?” he asks and Sherlock gives him an astonished look.

“Not at all,” he says and John opens up his wallet, carefully pushing the photo between its creases.

When he is finished, he wraps his arms around Sherlock, hugging him quite strongly. It feels like Sherlock is shaking.

“Sherlock?...” John realizes that something is wrong and becomes quite serious, “Oi- what’s wrong, love? Do you want it back?”

“John,” Sherlock whispers and John sees that his eyes have become horribly red, “John, you can’t ever leave me, _ever again_. I can’t bear it.”

“Who says anything about leaving?” John exclaims softly, his thumbs caressing those cheeks and leans into that lovely brain, “You are stuck with me now, I’m afraid. I look forward to watching you chase people off with your horrible experiments and how insufferable you will be when you’ll find about your first grey hair. I can only hope you’ll be as patient with me when I ask you a million times where my glasses are.”

A fat tear drop falls from the tip of Sherlock’s nose, but he is smiling. “Promise?”

“It’s a promise,” John whispers, now he is choked up as well. He kisses Sherlock one more time, then wipes his tears, “I swear. You’re it for me, Sherlock. Since the moment we’ve met and always will be. It’s always supposed to be, you and I, together. I’m sorry it took me so long to realize it.”

“It’s okay, I didn’t make it easy,” Sherlock sniffs and John laughs wetly.

“God I haven’t cried this much since I dislocated my femur,” He quickly rubs his own eyes as well, “And I passed out eight times after that, before they took me to A&E.”

Sherlock peaks. “Rugby accident?”

“Nope- bar fight. I was saving Murray’s arse,” John laughs, “Almost cost me my training in the army, that injury. I’m glad I did though, he married that girl later.”

“Hm,” Sherlock carefully puts the albums back into shelves, “He has left some comments in your blog.”

“Oh God,” John is suddenly very aware that Sherlock reads and _re-reads_ every entry he has every written, “What did he say?”

“Not much, sadly,” Sherlock mumbles and disappears behind the bookcases, “I-may-have-created-a-fake-Facebook-account-and-friended-him-to-stalk-out-your-Army-photos-though.”

John decides his head needs to become acquaintanced with the table. “Alright, let’s hear it out- I know you _saw_ it-”

“‘ _Three Continents Watson’?”_ Sherlock peaks out from around the corner, “Is it a sex thing?”

“No, it is not a sex thing, it’s a _stupid thing_ , God-” John laments, “Back there, I was one day talking about how Harry and Clara and their friends used gather around in home, suddenly it blew out of my control and not only I was the bloke with hot lesbian sister but with many hot lesbian friends which extended across several nations - as if that made me an _expert_ on anything.”

Sherlock looks very confused. “Well- that’s… kind of dumb of them, isn’t it? I mean, their sexual preference kind of defeats the purpose.”

“Yeah, well- tell that to a base full of young hormonal army recruits,” John laughs, “I gave up on fighting it in the end. Everyone was happy to add some sort of fantasy on to it- I was just happy they left my sister out of it.”

They move to armchairs next to fireplace, very reminiscent of 221B and Sherlock shows him the mini kitchenette where John tries to make sense of the cabinets to prepare a cuppa, Sherlock pointing him to correct way.

While the kettle is boiling, Sherlock asks timidly, “Will you tell me about James Sholto?”

John feels his back tighten but he doesn’t move away from Sherlock. He clears his throat, but isn’t able to elaborate.

“I’m hardly going to make fun of you, John,” Sherlock quietly reminds him of his earlier words.

“I know,” John once again clears his throat, he can feel the tips of his ears go red and is glad to have something to fiddle with in his hands, “It’s just- it’s hard for me.”

“I know,” Sherlock says gently.

“I mean,” John looks up at him as the tea slowly soaks into the boiling water, changing the colours, “I’m not ashamed- or delusional. About- about how I feel about you. But, back in that day… it was kind of a disaster. It’s… it’s mostly why I can’t… I can’t still admit-”

“That you are a bisexual,” Sherlock completes him, “It’s _fine_. Isn’t it? It’s _all fine_.”

John lets out a small, bitter laugh. “I’m a bit of a hypocrite, aren’t I? Harry certainly thought so.”

He watches Sherlock take in his expression, which must be an unhappy one, and feels him squeeze his side. “Do you want me to guess?”

John snorts into his collarbone, “I thought you didn’t do guesswork.”

“I may make exceptions,” Sherlock softly says, “He was your commanding officer, but as you became more familiar with each other it quickly grew into a mutual admiration of skill. Even though he was reclusive and unsociable you wanted a relationship with him before he left on that disastrous mission. He said no.”

John can tell his entire face is red now, “You think very highly of me,” he croaks and then corrects, “ _He_ wanted a relationship and I was the one who said no.”

Sherlock pauses.

John rubs the back of his neck, still unable to look him in the eye, he focuses on putting the tea in to their fancy, proper cups. In almost an inaudible voice, he says, “He kissed me. I turned him down. He- um, he was quite upset. I- I sometimes think that- that might have had a role- in... in how things went down, after that. With, with the new recruits.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock snaps, “He was a grown man, wasn’t he? He was your commander.”

“Yes,” John says quietly, “Bu still, he was just a man. And I was- quite cruel to him, I'd say.”

Sherlock feels a bit unsure how to pursue this any further. It makes him uneasy, too. John Watson seemed always, an epitome of everything good, kind and righteous. Cruel is not a word he associates it with him. Well, except mornings- if he's denied of both the bathroom and the tea.

“I used to have- this idea,” John continues with a mumble, “And bear with me, I was much younger and thought myself higher than stars and practically invincible. I had crushes on a few people back when I was a teenager, but after what happened with Harry- I decided just _not_ to be gay. I liked chicks just as much, so why bother, right?”

John shrugs contemplating and pushes him his drink, Sherlock quietly accepts it. “I’ve worked my arse off to pull the highest scores on everything I did- and it did not come easy to me, believe me. When I say I’m a _very good_ doctor, I'm not saying it to brag, I mean that I almost killed myself to score higher than almost everyone in my class to became a _very, very good_ doctor. When they promoted me as an army captain- I didn’t just lead the new recruits, I _trained_ them and I trained them to be as good of a shot as I am. As I said, practically invincible, right?”

John snorts a bit and puts down the kettle. “I had this brilliant idea for a career planned out. I was going to leave the army with whole bloody galaxy on my shoulders and the prettiest nurse I could have on my arm and we were going to have seven babies before I was thirty.”

The tea cup clatters in Sherlock’s hands, John watches as he quickly covers it by pretending to drink it. John doesn’t buy it. He looks up to Sherlock. “I was young and a dumb fucking kid, alright, Sherlock? So yes, I was quite cruel to James Sholto and I am still ashamed of it.” John sighs and sits down opposite of him. “Luckily, he accepted my apology after he returned from that disaster and we’ve parted on good terms. He insisted I invite him over if I ever marry that pretty nurse.”

Sherlock snorts. John looks up in disbelief. Sherlock starts to smile, then lets out a laugh and John is beyond confused by his reaction.

“John Watson,” Sherlock giggles, “You are a _completely_ trash human being, aren’t you?”

John is so surprised that he doesn’t know whether to be offended or laugh as well. “What do you mean- I just _confessed_ to you!”

Sherlock is laughing so hard that the tears are rolling down his face, now. “You invited the _poor_ man- to your _wedding_ \- where he was literally stabbed, _twice_. You are _unbelievable_.”

John kind of sees the point, now. His mouth twitches, then he takes a sip of his tea, “Well, I also made the love of my life stand for my best man- it really wasn’t a very expertly executed wedding, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock giggles harder and John can’t help but smile. He loves this man. He puts down his cup to goes hug Sherlock. Sherlock is still smiling but doesn’t hesitate to accept his hug.

“I’m sorry,” John murmurs, “That was a dick move, as well.”

“Nah,” Sherlock grins, “I enjoyed being your best man. It’s the bride part I’ve had problems with.”

John beams at him.

“And you are simply _hopeless_ with any sort of planning or picking reasonable clothes, so-” Sherlock continues.

“ _Shut up_ ,” John murmurs and steals a kiss, which is readily given, leaving his lips tingling, “I am _excellent_ at everything, I’ll have you know.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock inquires thoughtfully, following with another, longer kiss, “That’s up for debate, I believe. I don’t have a basis for comparison, but I’ll try to do my best.”

 

***

 

Sherlock feels John’s fingers squeeze the nape of his neck, deepening the kiss. He tries to follow as John does this incredibly complicated thing with his lips and his tongue, and then he’s sucking hard on Sherlock’s tongue. All of this causes the hair on his arms stand up and his nipples tighten which is making Sherlock go crazy.

“Did you just make a sex joke?” John mumbles hoarsely as he is his panting into his mouth. ~~~~

As John alternates between biting his lower lip and licking it better Sherlock can’t be sure but, the sound he made was probably between a moan and a whimper. He struggles to draw John closer- which is really awkward because the army doctor is currently kneeling in front of him. In his haste, Sherlock’s arm bumps into the side table, rattling the tea cup, sloshing tea over the top.

John clears his throat and Sherlock can tell he’s trying really hard not to lower his eyes further down to Sherlock’s lap, which must be difficult what with him practically laying across it. His warm, sure fingers are underneath Sherlock’s shirt now, caressing his ribs and gently teasing his sternum. “So, um…”

Sherlock is so _hard_ he is starting to see stars; he is quite sure. His neck feels hot and he is panting, not quite sure how to take this further.

John’s cheeks and neck are reddened as well, but he still seems hesitant. Until his thumb moves over one of Sherlock‘s nipples causing an involuntary, almost painfully sounding moan to escape.

“Right, um- is there a- guest room?” John guesses distractedly.

Sherlock grabs him by the hand and almost runs out of the library.

He doesn’t give John much of a chance once they’re inside the fire-lit room before he crowds him up against its solid door. Sherlock can’t catch his breath, his kisses becoming more sporadic as he concentrates on breathing. John takes the lead and Sherlock feels a knee inserted between his and suddenly his back is hitting the wall. John’s hand then snakes down between them, fingers gently moving over his erection. Sherlock moans out again, but this time in despair.

“Right, Sherlock- love? I’m not trying to tease you, I swear,” John swallows, Sherlock ssees that his pupils are all blown out now, “But- you’re basically relying on me to get us through this and- I don’t want to fuck it up, okay? I – I have to have some things in clear- will you bear with me?” Sherlock can’t quite make the words form in his mouth before John is taking one of his hands, kissing his fingers, “Come on sweetheart, stay with me, okay?”

“Okay,” Sherlock finally gets out a deep breath, “okay…”

John looks at him, reaches up to kiss him on the cheek as well, “I’m a bit worried,” he quickly confesses, “See, whenever I take things a bit further, you um, you hold your breath and your magnificent brain goes offline.”

“I don’t do that,” Sherlock very quickly objects.

John noses his neck, “I want to suck your lovely cock. Will you be okay with that?”

Sherlock goes blank.

“See?” John is half worried, half amused now, but mostly worried. He peppers light kisses on Sherlock’s cheeks, imploring him, “Come on, come back love. That’s it. Now, where were we?”

“You- um- you – you-” Sherlock stutters.

“You do that, every time we kiss,” John tells him, hugging him tight, “I don’t think you quite realize it. Now- I’m not _that_ cruel. I will put that lovemaking thing I said on hold, if you promise me to let us go slower, okay?”

Sherlock is beyond embarrassed, now. He thought everything was going really smooth- he should have known, cocaine always made him a bit hazy on the details.

“Hey, hey no- none of this crap, okay?” John gently brushes his lips on his chin, to make him look up, “Just, just tell me- you didn’t ever get off with anyone?”

Sherlock shakes his head negatively. He thought the term _virgin_ explained everything, but apparently not.

“On yourself?” John presses further.

This is painful. Sherlock bites on his lower lip. “Sometimes?”

“How often?”

“Rarely?”

“How rare?”

“Very?”

“Okay,” John breathes out, he had rewarded each answer with a gentle kiss, “And um- one last thing, are you clean? I mean-”

Sherlock buries his face in John's neck, feeling quite desperate. “I am. I swear, John.”

“Have you been tested? I know you use your own needles but- sorry- I just- I have to know- it’s okay if-”

“I did, Mycroft forces me to it every time-”

“-if you are positive, we just have to- what?”

“What?!”

They both blink at each other.

Sherlock opens his mouth about to strongly protest in what John would surly describe as being overly dramatic.

John cuts him off before he even starts, Sherlock can tell he’s embarrassed, “Um, never mind that- that the last thing I said then, good for you. Keep it up.”

“Are you out of your bloody mind?!” Sherlock bellows.

“I’m clean as well, since you asked,” John emphasizes and pointedly avoids the question, “I’ve been tested after- after the ultrasound scan.”

“Is it always this horribly awkward?” Sherlock demands to know as he looks down to his penis. His erection is still going strong- but not as urgently as before.

John starts giggling which in return, makes Sherlock grin.

“I’m sorry,” John murmurs to his chest, “I’m making this worse, aren’t I?”

“You are doing fantastic,” Sherlock tells him, hoping he sounds as sincere as it feels.

“I’m just- it’s not like I have the exact experience- and I don’t want you to be disappointed,” John admits, “It’s not going to be perfect, alright? Sex isn’t supposed to be that. Don’t- don’t be disappointed- and tell me if anything – overwhelms you.”

Sherlock feels the fondness for this man like a ball of sunshine filling his chest to bursting. “It’s already perfect John, because it’s you.”

John looks up at him, his eyes oddly bright, “God, just- come here,” he whispers and kisses him soft and sweet. It’s gentler and slower than any of their kisses and Sherlock realizes that John was right. He did miss quite lot of details of the kisses, previously.

John takes his hands and puts them on his own waist. “You can touch me anywhere you want,” he tells him, “I’m going to just do that again, alright? Don’t hold your breath. It’s jus’fine,” he murmurs and very slowly, puts his lips against Sherlock’s. They are warm and slightly chapped, slightly tasting of bitter tea, but underneath, it’s all very John. He slowly kisses him back, feeling the light movement of give and take and feels suddenly, quite happy, when he feels John’s lips taking shape of a smile. He is kissing John’s smile.

It’s amazing.

When he feels like he can both breathe and keep up with the kisses, which are, quite organically moving, like a flow of water, really, he risks moving his hands to catalogue John further. He has such compact body, shorter than he is, yes- but John fills his frame much better. The slight filling around his waist is completely gone as a result of his previous loss of appetite- which quite alarms Sherlock. He files it away carefully to be examined for a later date.

John breaks the kiss by giggling.

“What?” Sherlock exclaims.

John grins, “Nothing- I just- I can almost hear you thinking. I’ve had seven pounds on.”

Sherlock is terrified, “But you are hardly eating- you’ve lost it all. Don’t lose it any more.”

“I know, I know,” John sighs and noses him, “I ate, now, didn’t I? I can’t believe we are having this conversation when you are the one who needs regular reminders that your body doesn’t function on air alone.”

“It doesn’t work on you, though,” Sherlock insists, “You need to take better care of yourself, John.”

John just simply grins at him.

 _Not good?_ Sherlock looks a bit regretful. “Um- did that, break the mood?”

John’s grin grows larger, “Nope,” he answers as he moves a tiny step closer to him.

“Oh,” Sherlock can’t help as his eyes grow wide, feeling John’s quite insistent erection against his.

“Hm,” John answers, putting tiny kisses to his chin, “You want to- maybe- have us have less clothes?”

That option- of seeing _more_ of John honestly didn’t occur to him, before. Now Sherlock feels even more interested in the proceedings.

He looks at John, sees one eyebrow up, waiting expectedly, so he slowly starts to unbutton John’s shirt, revealing the white vest underneath.  

“It’s not pretty,” John warns him as he removes the shirt and the vest completely. All he can think about is the fact that he's about to see John’s scar, for the first time, “But knowing you, it’s practically an invitation, so go ahead,” John sighs out fondly.

Sherlock quickly gives him a kiss, as if in apology and looks down to see John's bare torso, and it’s worth it. John has very defined biceps, and his left shoulder is a complete and beautiful mess. The bullet had gone through at such angle that it had come out very close to his lung, which probably increased the risk of infection further. There is a long, thick scar binding the tissue together messily- not a surgeon’s work then. He almost died as a result- so that means…

“Yeah,” John nods, “Bill had to do it. I was losing too much blood. Saved my life, paid me back.”

Sherlock gives it a tiny kiss. “Is it _not good_ that I’m glad… for it?”

John’s eyes gleam. “If you don’t repeat it to anyone else we know, it’s fine for me.”

In return John puts tiny kisses on Sherlock’s neck, while his fingers efficiently remove Sherlock’s shirt from his designer trousers, slowly teasing the zipper down a bit, before moving up to free the tiny buttons from their holes. Sherlock breathes out as he feels gentle fingers caressing his bullet wound. Then realizes something.

“John,” Sherlock softly leans his head to him, “I- I realized something now, which- which could be upsetting for you.”

John’s fingers freeze on his half opened buttons. “What is it?” he hesitates, “Does it hurt?”

“No, um- it’s healed, you can touch it,” Sherlock says and seems quite unsure for a second. It could be very upsetting for John- but how to avoid it? It will come up soon enough. “I have- other scars,” he confesses, “On my back. From when I was gone.”

John stops and looks at him. “What kind of scars?”

“Lacerations,” Sherlock answers matter-of-factly, “I was whipped.”

John swallows, multiple times. “Let me see?” he implores.

Sherlock nods, John removes his shirt, slowly caressing his sides, where the puckered bullet wound first makes appearance. It’s a very neat scar, compared to John’s and is completely healed. Slowly, John turns him around to take a look at his back. He knows the slight lines zigzagging on his back have mostly faded to white. He also knows John hadn’t been that focused on Sherlock’s bullet wound and may not have notice these, since they are practically invisible. Still, the sheer number of them, tells a different story.

John stays silent for a while, then kisses every single one of them. He makes Sherlock turn back to him and kisses him again and says, “No more, okay? It’s enough for both of us.”

Sherlock nods.

“Do you want to talk about it?” John asks with a low voice.

Sherlock shakes his head negatively, “It was under control. Mycroft was there, as well. It was the final mission.”

“Serbia?” John asks, Sherlock nods.

John puts lips to his chest and knows he feels his wildly beating heart, “Okay,” he whispers sounding like he's holding back tears.

Sherlock grabs him and they stay hugging, wrapped around each other for a while, rocking a little, both thinking how lucky they are- that they are finally here, together.

John clears his throat, “ _This_ reminds me of the dance lessons.” Sherlock knows he’s trying to lighten the very heavy mood.

Sherlock lets out a snort, hugging John’s shoulders tighter, not lifting his head. His lips are on John’s scar when he talks, “Well, if _that’s_ how it went-”

“Funny,” John grins and squeezes Sherlock’s strong waist, “You’re not that bloody tall. I think I could have dipped you as well.”

“And most likely break my spine in process,” Sherlock draws back with a smile. He lets out a tiny sight, “This is nice.”

“Hmm,” John agrees and takes a step. Sherlock stumbles back a step but quickly catches up with him, his smile has dimples now.

“Ooh, you haven’t forgotten,” he teases with a deep voice.

John grins back at him, “I had an excellent teacher,” he says.

“Hmm?” Sherlock inquires.

“Yep,” John nods, “He was a bit of an arsehole first but quickly helped me pick up the moves. He had an excellent arse too, as well.”

Sherlock is downright grinning because of this. “Oh, has he, now?”

“Hmm, you should see him in a sheet. Worthy of royalty, some might even say.”

“That’s high praise,” Sherlock lifts an eyebrow when he notices John not paying even a bit of attention to his foot work, instead opting to grin at Sherlock. “Are you sure he isn't still available, you know, for more lessons? You are still in need of them.”

John laughs, “Am I? You dick,” he says fondly and stops them for a second in front of the fireplace to kick off his shoes. Sherlock lets out a small snort and copies him. He lifts his hands as an invitation and John quickly takes them, moving their arms to the proper places, with one hand on Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock easily acquiesces, allowing him to lead. “I heard he can even do some ballet moves but I’m not going to believe that until I see it with my own two eyes…”

Sherlock’s mischievous smile quickly vanishes, “Yes, better not believe everything you hear.”

“Right? Where would that leave us, hmm?” John grins teasingly.

Sherlock pushes him to do a turn. “Nowhere good.”

“Exactly,” He can tell John won't be able to hold back much longer, “Can you really do them?”

“No.” Sherlock thinks he may have answered too quickly.

John chuckles and kisses his collarbone, “I kind of don’t believe you.”

“I can’t, John,” Sherlock insists with what he’s pretty sure is a completely straight face but his eyes may give him away, “That is utter fiction.”

“Bollocks,” John laughs, “Sadly, I have no evidence. Only rumours, that. I will have to think up a master plan to force you to do them. Maybe a case involving a ballet school? An ensemble?”

Sherlock’s mouth twitches. “Dancers are vicious creatures,” he says seriously, “It is quite probable something might happen with that lot.”

“I won’t hold my breath,” John lifts his eyebrows pointedly, still smiling and right there, Sherlock realizes that this is flirting- they are flirting. Quite ridiculously. He feels his chest impossibly extending to make way for his bursting heart. Very quickly, he moves one of his hands under John’s ass and twirls them, John lets out a squawk.

Sherlock keeps him airborne for only a second before landing him in sync with his own feet. “Jesus- what was that?!” he squeaks.

Sherlock grins, “An advanced move,” he says and nonchalantly takes the lead, moving them across the floor as he desires. “Dum, dum, dum," he hums a rhytm, "-yes, better,” Sherlock approves, moving them more boldly, “Your follow is much better.”

“Arse,” John throws him a fond, exasperated look. He quickly adapts. “We started that way, it kind of stuck with me.”

“Or is it because you are so short?” Sherlock smirks and then yelps when he suddenly finds himself with his back on the bed and John landing on the top of him.

John is grinning. “Never again challenge a man with a much lower center of gravity,” Sherlock can feel his breath on his face, still coming quickly from the recent physical exertion. He watches as John leans forward and he can’t stop himself from wrapping his arms around his neck to bring their mouths together.

With lips still crashing together, Sherlock lets himself be moved around until they are more towards the center of the bed. When their feet are finally off the floor, Sherlock grabs John by the back of his jeans, pulling him on the top of him and breaking the kiss with a choked off moan when their crotches bump firmly against each other.

 

***

 

“You okay?” John checks him, breathless, Sherlock nods violently, nosing up John’s cheek and picks up the kiss.

John doesn’t really believe him, so he keeps the lower part of his body still. But up top, he starts to soothingly caress Sherlock’s scalp, his thumb drawing circles on every bit of Sherlock’s face he’s not currently kissing. When Sherlock’s breaths still come out too quickly, John slows down the kisses too, leaving his lips to kiss other parts of his face until he can feel Sherlock getting his breath back. Sherlock copies him, by giving him short, sweet kisses all over John’s face. John smiles down at him.

“Am I doing fine, Doctor Watson?” Sherlock asks him. John’s sure he was aiming for a teasing tone but gave away his nervousness by biting down on his lower lip.

John’s smile grows even bigger, “Hmm, you are doing splendidly, Mister Holmes,” he says cheekily and gives him another, longer kiss, “You are not even holding your breath anymore, good, very good, Sherlock.”

Sherlock flushes up to his ears and his cock twitches noticeably against John’s.

John grins widely, “Oh, you liked that?” he murmurs and noses Sherlock’s ear, biting the soft flesh just a bit, “Which part? Is it _Holmes_?... nope, don’t tell me, I should’ve known… you’re doing very, very _good_ , love, so _good_ … you are so _amazing_ , I tease you but you take my breath away each time… you are so _stunning_ , look at you, so _lovely_ …”

“ _God_ ,” Sherlock gasps as he grows harder, “This-um… that- this is- _okay_ , um, enough…”

“Did I get it?” John smiles to his neck, giving it tiny licks, sucks and bites, “Oh, we are screwed, now, aren’t we? I’ll just do that without noticing- I do it anyway… I’ll have to reign it in, don’t want to give you a boner in front of the Yarders… nope, don’t want them to think how _delicious_ you are, how _incredible_ … so _smart_ , and _sexy_ , and all mine…”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock moans out a beg, his fingers grasping into his thick strands of hair, unable to get another word out, he helplessly bucks against John’s solid muscles.

“You mine, Sherlock?” John murmurs, his voice gone hoarse, he sucks and kisses Sherlock’s gasping mouth now, his hips moving in tiny circles. “Going to kiss me like that, in front of everybody? Let me call you _love_ … _honey…_ _sweetheart_?...”

“Yes,” Sherlock wheezes, “Yes, anything- no, no, no, not, not _that_ though, the second one.”

John chuckles breathlessly. “I’m so going to call you that, with your pesky bees-”

“Bees,” Sherlock says with gasping breaths, “are… wonderful… wonderful, John- just… just, God, please, please…” he babbles apparently no longer able to stick to one train of thought. He squeezes hard on John’s leg, shaking with tension, and buries his face in his neck.

John noses him back, his chest heaving with the effort of staying still, he slowly moves his fingers to Sherlock’s crotch, tracing the outline of his zipper. “Yeah?” he asks, Sherlock nods against his neck. John stops teasing him, undoing his button and unzipping him, all in one smooth move. Carefully, he hooks his fingers to Sherlock’s dark grey pants and lowers himself down, kissing down on his chest and helping him remove his pants, trousers and socks completely.

When he comes back up, his face is flushed and he can tell his pupils are dilated. “Sherlock,” John whispers, “God, you are gorgeous.”

He sees that Sherlock _is_ shaking, so John leans up to pet his hair, kiss his eyebrows. Lifting up, he rolls them onto their sides, so that they could look at each other.

John hears Sherlock swallow and his fist closes on the front of John’s jeans. “Take- take these off, too,” he whispers.

John nods to his cheek, “Give me a hand?” he asks. Together, they unbuckle and unbutton him and John sits up on his knees to kick it off. He is almost as hard as Sherlock, his tight black boxers leaving nothing to imagination. Sherlock swallows and slowly reaches out a hand, tracing his cock. John lets out a low moan, crawling towards him, kissing him hard. 

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John gasps out, “Still okay? Is it too fast? I don’t think I’m going to last anyhow if you keep doing that.”

The dizziness is staying, apparently. “Let’s, um-” Sherlock can’t finish his sentence, but he moves his hands to John’s waist.

John quickly understands, “Okay… okay, come here. Take deep breaths. We don’t have to do anything, alright? Don’t worry.”

John manages to free a corner of the bedspread they are currently kneeling on and tucks Sherlock underneath, drawing the soft, puffy pillows closer to his head and covering him tightly. He hesitates for a second, before slipping out his own underwear too, then joins him under the covers.

Immediately, Sherlock grasps his fingers, slowly drawing him closer. John lets out a relieved breath, frees an arm and caresses his beautiful, messy curls, coiling them up to his fingers.

“Better?” he asks. Sherlock nods, burrowing his nose to John’s cheek. It is much nicer without clothes. John’s skin is soft, warm and is everywhere.

“Are you going to feel better if I talk?” John murmurs, slowly caressing his flaming cheeks, Sherlock nods, eyes shut firmly. “I had vomited at my first time,” John admits, remembering the utter embarrassment that faint memory brings.

Sherlock peeks an eye open, trying to measure if John is serious or not.

John looks embarrassed, “I was that nervous and it certainly didn’t go any better between us after that. She was older than me and I was terrified.”

Sherlock snorts. John gives him a smile. “I couldn’t face her again so I didn’t try to do anything for almost a year. Then I was with someone else and that time, I didn’t _vomit._ But I couldn’t remember anything I’d learned beforehand and so I tried to do the moves I'd seen in porn, but my girlfriend stopped me and told me that _it did not work like that_ ,” Sherlock lets out a giggle from his chest, John grins back at him, “I was _mortified_.”

Sherlock sighs, “At least you are familiar with these,” he points below the sheets, John laughs.

“Well, the same with you,” John teases him, “Are you going to vomit?”

“No,” Sherlock lets out a deep, sad sigh. He is gone all soft now. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“Sherlock, it’s fine,” John noses him, giving him a small kiss on his eyelid, “I told you, it’s all fine. I- love you. You’re it, for me, okay? It doesn’t change anything even if we ever manage to do that- or if we just hug and kiss for the rest of our lives. I’d still want you. We don’t have to do anything you are not comfortable with, love. Alright?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispers, “Thank you.”

John makes a tiny noise, “You are very much welcome,” he says, “Do you want to go to sleep?”

Sherlock nods miserably. He is not sure if he is going to be able to sleep, but he certainly wants to curl up in the dark. When John moves, he grasps him immediately. “Don’t go,” he murmurs.

“Okay,” John says softly, “I love you.”

Sherlock hugs him hard, “Love you too, John, so much,” he murmurs and is tiny bit relieved when he sees John’s eyes gleam. Then notices something else, too. “Um,” he fidgets awkwardly looking down at the covers, “you’re still-”

“That’s a permanent fixture when I’m around you, I’m afraid,” John smiles. “Does that bother you?”

Sherlock shakes his head. John kisses his brow. “Just ignore it. Come on, try to sleep. Things will look better in the morning.”

Sherlock lets out a deep sigh and snuggles against John’s chest. John reaches out a hand to click off the lamp on the nightstand, leaving only the fireplace providing them a light.

John shifts his nose against Sherlock’s hair and they settle down. A long moment passes in blissful, warm silence, John mumbles sleepily as if he just remembered, “If I seem to be having a nightmare, don’t try to touch me, ‘lright? Jus’ reminding…”

Sherlock makes a mournful noise, “I don’t have my violin,” he bemoans.

“Wha-?” John blinks sleepily.

“I used to play,” Sherlock half-babbles and John can’t make any sense - Sherlock seems more asleep than awake, anyway.

“’Kay,” John sighs and closes his eyes and falls asleep.

Before he is swallowed by utter black bliss, his tired brain finally manages to connect the dots and he understands exactly what Sherlock meant. Warmed by the memory of a sweet tune that a gorgeous violin makes, he sleeps with a smile on his face.

 

***

 

“Sherlock?” sing songs a sweet voice.

Sherlock jolts out of sleep to find a pair of large, blue eyes staring down at him.

Mary Watson smiles at him and puts a finger to her mouth, her eyes slowly sliding over to the figure next to him.

John’s back is turned and he is sleeping soundly.

Mary lifts her gun and makes a gesture to indicate Sherlock to follow her.

He puts on his dressing gown and follows her, and watches the way her small figure blends into shadows effortlessly. When they cross over the bedroom threshold they are somehow in 221B’s fire-lit sitting room. Sherlock throws an uneasy glance to the open door, cold moonlight illuminating seventeen steps down to Mrs. Hudson’s flat, and then out to London. He can hear the clopping sounds of horse-drawn carriages, passing along the street below.

“What are we doing here?” He fidgets and fasten the belt of his dressing gown, tighter, wishing he was more dressed.

Mary removes her mourning veil completely and smiles at him. She sits down in Sherlock’s chair, crossing her legs, shifting her tightly fit, voluminous, black lace gown.

“We’re here to discuss gross indecency, darling,” Mary says to him, still smiling sweetly.

Sherlock finds himself across from her in John’s chair. He crosses his arms and leans back. “I know I am dreaming. There is no need for theatrics.”

“Is there, now?” Mary gives him a big smile, “What do you call sleeping with my husband, then?”

Sherlock turns his eyes away from her. “I call it mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Mary lets out a small giggle. “I always love it Sherlock, when your true face shines out. Poor John. We don’t tell him, do we? How many things we have in common? Well,” Mary has a vindictive smile on her face now, “I still seem to holding one over your head, though.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Ha, very funny, still virgin,” he mimics tonelessly, then lets out a long suffering sigh. “Are you going to shoot me, again? If you are please do so that we can get on with our lives.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I am in mourning?” Mary pleasantly reminds him.

A shiver runs through Sherlock’s spine. “No,” he stubbornly replies, “I already know why. You are mourning your marriage.”

A floorboard creaks down the stairs. Sherlock’s attention is drawn to the open door.

Mary gives him a bored half-smile. “Really? That’s what you came up with?”

“He was always so symbolic, our dear Sherlock,” bemoans Jim Moriarty from the open the door, and crosses the living room to sit next to Mary, on the arm of the chair. He is using his knife to cut and eat a piece of an apple. “So much subtext. You should have seen what he came up with, to contain me in,” he rolls his eyes and Mary laughs softly.

Sherlock leans back further. “Fine. I see this connection. I already told John this is utter fabrication. You two may leave now. Take your baby with you, too.”

“Baby?” Moriarty slowly blinks and repeats with a low voice, “What baby?”

“Oh, I was going to tell you, darling,” Mary takes his hand and caresses his leg, “It was actually John’s, so I had to get rid of it. I hope you are not too disappointed.”

“Oh,” Jim lifts his eyebrows, as if not very sure what to comment, “Well, if you _had_ to…”

“For FUCK’S sake!” Sherlock kicks the small table next to chairs, “What’s the point of this?!”

“The point is, dear brother,” Mycroft appears and slowly sits down across him, where Mary and Jim used to be, his voice gentle, “That you still don’t see the point.”

The Woman walks in front of him, smiling up to him and starts to remove his dressing gown’s belt. “I told you before, didn’t I? The problem with the disguises, it’s always a self-portrait.”

She slowly pushes him back to bedroom where John is still sleeping, unaware.

“You had to imagine yourself as a Victorian gentleman. In a sad time, where only certain relationships were acceptable. The others, punishable by death.” She gives him a sad smile, her lips traced with blood red lipstick. “Are you that self-deprecating?”

She makes him sit down on the bed, kneeling in front of him. “The point is; you still want to shoot up. You did not change, not even a little, since you are a little boy. You’re a failure. A freak of nature. A genius with no heart. An addict with no control. You’ll consume him, heart, body and soul.”

Sherlock is shaking.

“Now, John… he knew where to look, didn’t he?” Irene lifts an eyebrow to John’s sleeping figure and sits down next to him, her eyes sad. “He will come to hate you. Worse, he will pity you. Why wouldn’t he? You took everything from him.” She turns her piercing eyes towards him. “If you really loved him,” she says coldly, “you would have left him alone.”

Irene leaves and the naked figure in the bed suddenly turns towards him. “Don’t worry though!” Moriarty grins widely, “You can always have me, inside your pretty little brain!” His black eyes shine madly, “We can roll and roll and roll and if you are _really, really good_ , Sherlock-”

Sherlock recoils back in terror. “No! _No!_ ”

_“Sherlock?”_

“No!”

“Sherlock! _Jesus_ \- who are you talking to?” John shakes him again and finally he is awake.

He sees the concern on John’s eyes and turns away from them to bury himself into his pillow. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine… go back to sleep.”

“Hey… hey, stop it,” John whispers and slowly caresses his hair, “Please. Tell me, what do you keep seeing in your gorgeous brain? This can’t be all drugs. Come on, love…” he murmurs, giving him tiny kisses to wherever he can reach, “I just want to help, please.”

Sherlock takes a shaky breath, blinking out his reddened eyes, slightly turning towards John’s embrace. “It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid.”

“Most dreams are,” John kindly reminds him, stroking his back soothingly, “But there is a reason why they are so… affective, yeah?”

“It was Moriarty… and Mary. And Mycroft. And The Woman,” Sherlock thinks back, “And you, as well.”

John lifts his eyebrows, “That’s a lot of people to talk to. What were we saying?”

Sherlock lets out a breath, “A lot of nonsense. It’s utterly despicable, really.”

“Hmm, is that so?” John moves tiny bit closer to him so that they are sharing the same pillow. “Shall I guess, what they are saying? They are saying a lot of bollocks about us, yeah? About you? About me?”

“Mostly,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Sherlock,” John fondly touches his brow, “Do you think I don’t know you, after all these years? Do you think I am under some kind of delusion? That I expect to find warm puppies and rainbows tomorrow in my bed? No,” John shakes his head to emphasize, “In fact, I expect to find body parts and disgusting experiments all over me. It would not faze me at all. Relationships, they don’t work like that, Sherlock- that’s- that’s what I meant before, your body is not just a transport. Not with food, not with sleep, not with drugs, not with sex, love,” John gently continues to pet him, “I know you are worried. I am worried too, about many things. I am worried that you might get bored with me, that I am too old, too stupid, that if there is a baby, you would think of her as too much responsibility and you would be right, too.”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock protests in complete horror.

“But I am trying to deal with it, right?” John softly continues, “I know you can be rude. Almost downright cruel. That you still have perception problems with your drug addiction. And you know what? I still love you. I told you I’m not going to leave. Whatever happens with Mary and the baby- and this is a hard thing to say, but you are my first priority. You will always come first, to me,” John says and Sherlock swallows, blinking the tears away.

John reaches to give him a tiny kiss, “And listen, okay? This is a bad thing to say to you, but I will say it. Okay? It is _not good_.”

“Okay,” Sherlock whispers.

John looks him in the eye, “If you were shooting up right now, I would still want you. It would kill me, but I would want you. If you suddenly decided that criminals have more fun, I would ignore my morals and follow you. If you thought- I don’t know, that you’d like to go and live with bloody penguins, I would be very, _very_ cross with you- but still, would go pack my gear,” John smiles at his trembling mouth, “I like you when you are an absolute cock, when you are utterly horrible in the mornings or leave dead people in the fridge. I can be a massive dick as well, so I’d say it’s a damn good match. I’m gone on you, Sherlock,” says John softly, “So write that in with huge neon letters on the wall of your mind palace, alright?”

He should have known- that John Watson would be the absolute end of him.

Luckily for him, he is also the beginning of him.

It’s an absolute shame really that he is crying so hard, because he can’t see John getting up, stark naked, to walk all the way across the room where the guest bathroom is. When he is finally able to get enough oxygen into his lungs, he hugs and kisses this dear man, this one man who has all of him.

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, next chapter, Mycroft will show up.
> 
> THANK YOU FOR YOUR LOVELY COMMENTS ♥ KUDOS ARE SWEET POTATOES.


	3. the elephant in the room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sky is full of pink elephants.
> 
> They are lying under the tree this time, he and John, looking at the pink, elephant clouds.
> 
> And it is John- not Watson- it’s definitely, undeniably John.
> 
> Sweet, sweet John.
> 
> “Johnnnnnnnnnnnnn…” he moans out, rolling towards him. The picnic blanket is so-so-so soft but John is even softer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did tell you that I abhorred WIPs, didn't I? So this is me, completing this story :D *makes a tiny dance*
> 
> And I'm sorry about the Turkish bath scene. Being Turkish myself, I find this Victorian cliché quite hilarious and sweet, considering the real Turkish baths are known to cause faintings in many cases, because of the hot steam. They are _boiling_.

  
**iii.           the elephant in the room**

 

 

The sky is full of pink elephants.

They are lying under the tree this time, he and John, looking at the pink, elephant clouds.

And it is John- not Watson- it’s definitely, undeniably John.

Sweet, sweet John.

“Johnnnnnnnnnnnnn…” he moans out, rolling towards him. The picnic blanket is _so-so-so_ soft but John is even _softer_.

John giggles at him and they kiss.

“Mmmm,” he says. And blinks. Wow, they are _naked_.

It’s so _nice_.

He rolls on the top of John and kisses all over his face. He puts his hands over John’s chest and his chin on the top of them. “John,” he says, “John, sex doesn’t alarm me,” he informs him seriously.

John grins at him, “It doesn’t?”

“Noooo _pe_ ,” Sherlock pops the last letter like a chewing gum balloon.

“It alarms me,” John says thoughtfully.

Sherlock suddenly sits up. “It does?!”

“Just a tiny bit,” John shows him how tiny it is.

“Is it tinier than 7 percent?” Sherlock demands to know. John shrugs and they roll over the blanket, only to end up in Sherlock’s room, in 221B.

Irene Adler is there, on Sherlock’s bed, with her killer heels and sharp whip.

They clutch to each other, watching her do her thing a bit, then John shrugs, “Yeah, it doesn’t do anything for me, either. Want to go up to my bedroom?”

Sherlock grins widely at him and they totally ignore her, opting for snogging each other, instead. They start to climb the stairs to John’s bedroom but the floor becomes slippery and the walls are all white marble, with steam rising out of the floor.

John opens up the door of his bedroom and it’s. so. _cool_.

“Johnnn,” Sherlock exclaims, excited, “You have a spa up here?!”

John chuckles, “No, silly, it’s a Turkish bath.”

“Are you Turkish?” Sherlock asks, confused, “Oh, you mean- a _hamam_.”

John snorts out. “A what?”

Sherlock waves his arm, indicating the room in front of them, “It’s so very clear, elementary, really- the architecture and the pattern of the shulip shaped shiles… I mean… tulip shaped tiles…. tuship laped tiles… oh, never mind that,” he shakes his head and sits down on the long, warm, marble seats, circling around the room. The steam is so thick; he can’t even _see_. He can’t even feel himself _breath_.

It’s so unbelievably hot in here. “John, it’s so hot in _here_.”

“Here,” John shows up with a Watson tartan plaid peshtemal around his hips. He gives him an ornate, copper bowl full of cold water, helps him pour it down his head.

Sherlock blinks out the water, his hair is dripping and clingy now. He pushes them out of his eyes.

“Better, now?” John asks and Sherlock nods.

“I would love to have a pool,” He sighs, “but it would be inaccurate.”

“Whatever you want, love,” John gently combs through his locks, “You want to get out of here?”

Sherlock nods, “This is not how I imagined,” he mumbles. He suspiciously eyes half-formed male figures at the other side of the steam. They look menacing… and too hairy.

John looks surprised, “No?”

Sherlock shakes his head. He opens up a door, hoping for a better room but jumps back surprised when a roomful of bathing naked women start screaming at him.

He quickly closes the door. “John, it’s not… it’s not my area.”

John laughs and takes his hand to pull him over to another room.

It’s much nicer in here. There are soft red couches, surrounded by privacy curtains and Sherlock lets out a breath. John sits down across him, giving him a cold glass of sweet, sugary red juice.

Thirsty beyond imagination, Sherlock gratefully drinks it down. John looks pleased. He takes such good care of him.

Sherlock wants to kiss him. He gently takes John’s face inside his palms and reaches down.

“Peek-a-boo!” Moriarty suddenly jumps out from behind the curtains, wearing a towel around his head like a Hindu priest.

Sherlock pushes him out of the way, “ _Nonononononono_ get out!”

Moriarty snorts, “Fine,” he huffs and jumps into the pool with a ‘wheee!’   

“Creep,” John comments and turns back to smile at Sherlock.

He is so lovely.

They are still smiling at each other when Mycroft peeks his head out of the curtains, sitting in the next booth, “Apologies, little brother, but did you make a list?”

“I don’t do lists,” Sherlock smiles and takes John’s hand.

Mycroft doesn’t disappear, “I’m sorry, I meant for John. Did you make a list for him?”

Sherlock blinks and frowns at his big brother. “What list?”

“Don’t worry,” Mycroft pulls out a notebook, “I already have one. Suicidal army doctor with PTSD, alcohol and substance abuse problems… history of violence and depression. Lost one best friend, one wife and one daughter.”

Sherlock grabs the hateful book from him and throws it into the water. “We don’t need that.”

“Pity,” Mycroft sighs, “They didn’t even find a note.”

“What?” Sherlock looks around and he finds himself in a corner of London he’s never been before. He puts his hands into his coat.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade nods his head. “Shame. He could have been a real nice blogger.”

Sherlock takes a closer look to the scene. There is a desk. And a gun. And a hand on the gun. And a head on the desk. And-

“Hey,” John takes him by the arm, “What are you doing here?”

Sherlock shakes his head, “I got lost,” he admits.

John smiles at him, “Take my hand, come on,” he says.

Together they take a nice walk around Regent’s Park. They feed the ducks. It’s a lovely, sunny day.

John kisses him under the blossoming cherry trees. There are pink elephant leaves, everywhere. And several bees.

“I love you,” Sherlock tells him.

John’s smile is almost blinding. “I love you too, honey,” he says. And takes his hand.

Sherlock blinks at the sound of soft clinking of warm metals. He looks down to their hands. John has his ring but it’s a different ring. A much more worn ring. And Sherlock has the same one.

A warm feeling bursts out of his chest. He smiles so hard that his cheeks hurt.

 

***

 

Sherlock wakes up with the same smile still on his face. He sees John’s face, illuminated by soft morning light coming in the windows.

He watches as John wakes up slowly, first peeking open an eye, and then closing it. With a twitching smile, “Good dreams?” he croaks out sleepily.

“The best,” Sherlock whispers and steals a kiss from him, despite the sour taste he knows he’ll find.

“Hmm?” John stretches out his arm, eyes still closed, “That good? I must be a miracle Mind Palace translator.”

“You are _the best_ , John,” Sherlock tells him fondly, too happy to conceal any thoughts.

John giggles quietly, “Stoppit.”

“The absolute best,” Sherlock insists, “Do you really not like bees?”

John is grinning so hard, he is having trouble keeping his eyes closed, “I like them when they bring me warm toast, butter and honey?” he offers.

“I don’t think they can carry that much,” Sherlock tells him.

John lets out a fake tragic sigh, “I guess I have to cope. It’s either that or penguins.”

“I like anemonefish too,” Sherlock confesses. “They form symbiotic mutualisms with sea anemones.”

John opens his eyes and grins. “I have to make you watch _Finding Nemo_.”

“The… captain?” Sherlock asks, confused.

“It’s an animated movie,” John explains and reaches out to kiss him properly, “Morning, love.”

“Morning, John,” Sherlock keeps his eyes soft.

“Morning,” John smiles at him and they kiss again. John tugs him a bit and this time, Sherlock is on the top of him, it’s much easier to reach John this way, he kisses all the lines of his lovely face and caresses all the golden skin in front of him, they are still very much naked. Shifting his weight a bit, Sherlock bumps his knee up to- _oh_.

John looks not bothered at all. “Do you want me to move?”

“No- no!” Sherlock fumbles, “I- just, um. Wasn’t expecting that.”

“Do you not have morning wood? Lucky man,” John murmurs and continues on kissing him sweetly.

Hesitantly, Sherlock lets his belly fall on John’s half-hard erection. He is curious, suddenly. John must have some kind of coping system against having to wake up -quite rudely most mornings- unexpectedly. It used to be their general routine really, when cases started to pile up after on John’s blog. Sherlock would regularly barging through his bedroom door to wake him up. Was he always hard?

He makes a tiny move against it and John lets out a soft moan, his cock twitching, hardening. He slides his hand down, lightly touching around his groin.

“Mm, Sher-” John starts but can’t finish, “ _Jesus_ ,” he gasps out, almost biting his tongue.

Sherlock drags his thumb around it, closely watching John. “Good?”

“Yeah,” John pants, “B-but let’s maybe stop a bit.”

“No, um- I want- I want to try-” Sherlock manages and shifts his leg up, a bit. “Can we, um…”

“Whatever you want,” John tells him, breathlessly.

“Um, this,” Sherlock tries to explain, “You do it and- and- just, let me, maybe?”

“You want to watch me jerk off?” John asks, his pupils large as saucers.

“If, if it’s okay?” Sherlock mumbles and is pleasantly surprised, when John suddenly squeezes hard of the bottom of the cock, to prevent himself from coming on the spot.

“Jesus, you’ll be the death of me,” John lets out a moan, moving both hands away from himself, trying to gather himself up, “Okay, okay, let’s do it.”

John looks around, but in the end finds nothing, he licks his palm and takes himself to hand.

Sherlock pulls back a bit, sitting on John’s knees, he watches the rhythmic movements of John’s fist. He carefully takes note of the angle and pressure, then slowly reaches down to caress and kiss John’s chest, his scar, his neck, back of his ear.

John’s hips almost buck him off when he drags his teeth up to his neck. A shiver runs through him. Sherlock realizes his cheeks are flushed, chest heaving and that he too, is quite hard.

He wraps his hand around John’s frantically moving fist. John lets out various whimper and moans each time his fingers touch him. He is panting when Sherlock finally comes up to kiss him, “ _Sherlock_ ,” John moans, only able to offer broken kisses, shaking with the effort.

Sherlock tries to run his thumb a few quick times around the head and gives a small suck on John’s tongue.

“ _Fuck_ ,” John gasps and comes all over to his fist. “Sherlock, oh, love,” he moans out almost painfully. “God, that was incredible. Come here,” John breathes out, giving him tiny kisses, caressing his hair with his clean hand, “You okay?”

“I- um, I don’t- I don’t know,” Sherlock babbles.

John’s heart is still beating so fast, he can see each beat in the carotid artery and his expanding chest. “Okay, okay, sweetheart, just, breathe. It’s okay, it’s alright…” John murmurs and noses him. “Would you like to take a warm shower with me?”

Sherlock nods. John takes his hand and moves them to the well-lit, large bathroom. He gets the water to a perfect temperature and pulls Sherlock inside the walk-in shower with him.

“Is it okay?” John asks as water pounds down on them, Sherlock nods again, feeling oddly shy and averts his eyes.

John grins. “You can look,” he teases gently and gives him a kiss, standing on his tiptoes, “Just relax, alright? Let me wash your hair.”

John examines some of the bottles at the shelf, giving them a running commentary, “What even is _pamplemousse_?” “Grapefruit-” “It says both body wash and shower gel… how many of these things do you need?” “Just pick one… _not_ that one… _that one_ …” “Oh, this smells really nice, actually.” John finally decides on one or two bottles, promptly squeezing them into a puffy sponge and creating a giant foam. He quickly and efficiently gives both of them a wash. He picks up the shampoo bottle, “Not _that_ one, John, that’s a tonic…” swaps it, then indicates Sherlock to bow down a little and runs his fingers carefully through his hair, massaging his scalp gently.

Sherlock finds himself grinning each minute it passes. “You like my hair,” he mumbles to John’s chest, holding on to him for balance.

“I do, it’s nice,” John says and smiles at him, letting him use the shower head to rinse out the suds, then giving him a kiss. Sherlock nudges the conditioner bottle for John to take. He looks a bit unsure what to do with it, “How much of this you use?”

“Just a little,” Sherlock squeezes the bottle in John’s hand. When the correct amount squeezes out he bows down dutifully again.

John makes a surprised noise when it’s rinsed out, “Oh- it’s so soft now- shut up, don’t you laugh.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock smiles widely, trying to control his chuckles.

John grins, “I don’t have this much hair, I don’t know what this stuff is for.”

“You won’t complain anymore then, when I’m taking too long in the shower,” Sherlock grins back at him.

“Nope,” John says cheerfully, “I will just have to bust in,” he continues cheekily, then puts both of his hands into Sherlock’s hair and kisses him and Sherlock can’t keep from making noise. He watches John pick up the shower gel and squeeze a bit more of the coconut shower gel into his hand before slowly, lathering it up over Sherlock’s arms, shoulders, under his arms, to his sides, his back…

Sherlock feels himself fully harden and he moans into John’s mouth when he feels his thumbs around his nipples.

“Sherlock,” John murmurs in his ear, as he takes his hand to dribble a bit more shower gel into his own palm. He moves around to Sherlock’s back, kissing his spine, caressing his belly, “Show me how you do it, on yourself, come on…”

He hesitantly wraps a hand around his own cock, slowly gathering a foam and moving it slowly.

“Good,” John murmurs and feels as John touches his chin to his back, “very good, God - you look so amazing…”

Sherlock feels his cheeks heating and bites down a moan. Slowly, bit by bit, John’s caresses go lower and he too, grabs Sherlock’s cock, replacing his hands and all he can do is stand there and pant.

John gives him a small bite and a lick, “So good, love,” he whimpers, “God, look at you, all flushed… such a beautiful cock too, I can’t wait to suck it off…”

Sherlock turns around to grab his shoulders and kiss him madly. He bucks into John’s fist when he feels his other hand squeezing his ass.

“It’s okay, Sherlock,” John breathes out, “just let it go, love.”

John swirls his fingers and combined with the warm water and his skilful pulls, suddenly Sherlock is gone. He lets out an animalistic moan, a sob tearing out of his chest and comes long and hard. Everything whites out completely, he can’t tell which way is up. He desperately clutches to John’s shoulders. As he feels his knees go weak John grabs him firmly and quickly, directs the shower towards him, cleaning him up and turning the shower off. He grabs a huge, puffy towel from the rack and wraps Sherlock up, helping him out of the bathroom and into the bed, hugging him with all his might.

When the sobs quiet down and the shaking eases, John kisses him firmly, “Are you okay?”

“Yes, um,” Sherlock mumbles, feeling quite like coming off a high, “that- that was, um.”

John smiles at him, his eyes looking all soft. “You liked it?”

“A bit,” Sherlock sighs tiredly then yawns, “I’m- I’m still dizzy.”

He feels a kiss on his nose, then hears John, “Just go to sleep, okay? I’ll wake you in a bit.”

Sherlock voices his protest, but it mat not have been in actual words. It’s like he floats over the air, because just one moment later, he can feel the bed dipping down again and a hand caressing his hair.

“Sherlock,” he feels John gently nudge him, “Could you wake up a bit, love, I have breakfast.”

He mumbles into his pillow but but feels more awake when his nose picks up the amazing smells. Feeling a little vulnerable, he wraps his towel tigher around his shoulders and sees that John has actually brought them breakfast. To the _bed_.

And it’s not just toast. He cooked eggs, and there is a bit of everything. Baked beans, and bacon, and sausages, and tomatoes, and there is even, a bowl full of sugar and a bit of strawberries with a stack of pancakes. He helps John putting the heavy tray between them, sitting cross-legged.

John grins at him, “Sorry, no honey or jam- apparently Mycroft takes his dieting very seriously.”

Sherlock looks at him as he pours tea for them both. “You didn’t have to, John- thank you,” he says softly.

“I wanted to,” John smiles back at him, “Come on, I promise to match you for each bite.”

That won't be hard really, Sherlock is feeling quite ravenous. After they clean up most of the tray, John stops him and puts a bit of sugar and strawberries at the top of the pancake, making it into a burrito and then offering it.

“This is your ‘congratulations you are no longer a virgin’ pancake,” John says, grinning to him.

Sherlock takes it, hesitating a bit. “But, um- we didn’t…”

John lifts an eyebrow, “I got off. You did too. So, yeah.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, then he bites into his pancake. He tastes cinnamon. It’s delicious.

John fondly grins at him. “Do you feel like the world has completely changed?” He gently teases, “Do all crimes make more sense now?”

Sherlock takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully, “Hmm, not really,” he says.

John chuckles, “Well, that was it. It’s just a thing Sherlock, it doesn’t have to be a big deal. I’d say most people would find harpooning a dead pig a lot harder. Sure, there is more if you want to try, the gist of it, was that. So yes, congratulations.”

Sherlock feels his dimples in the smile. “Thank you, John.”

John grins back at him, “Well, we couldn’t have done it without you, good sir.”

They both break into giggles, then Sherlock makes another strawberry-pancake-burrito and offers it to John.

John makes a curious sound. “What’s this?”

“It’s your congratulations too,” Sherlock says, giving him a shy smile.

“Oh,” John says and suddenly blushes. “Well. True. Huh.”

He eats the entire pancake off Sherlock’s fingers.

“Many happy returns, John,” Sherlock says, smiling.

John grins widely. “I’ll eat to that.”

 

***

 

It’s such a sunny day for the middle of the winter that they decide to take a breather. Apparently Mycroft had thought of everything, because there are clothes of their sizes in the wardrobe, including much nicer jumpers than John currently owes. They bundle up warm and Sherlock takes him through the garden, which is surrounded by high walls and electric fences. Still, there are lots of green leaved trees and it makes a nice change from the city.

John takes his hand and listens as Sherlock points out bits and bobs, telling him enthusiastically about what he did in the garden when he was a child. Turns out he had an endless imagination and an infinite will to annoy his older brother.

“I can’t believe you,” John chuckles and looks down into the shallow pond, “Is it really still there?”

Sherlock looks a bit chagrined. “I suppose so. Mycroft never went into the water to get it back- it could be there.”

“Well, best leave it alone, then,” John laughs, “I feel a bit sorry for poking fun at Mycroft now- I should have known you would have been utter rubbish to him.”

“Never when he didn’t deserve it, John,” Sherlock grins and they sit down on the bench.

John closes his eyes against the sun and sighs happily. He smiles a bit, leaving his eyes closed. “I can feel you staring, you know,” he mumbles.

“I can’t help it,” Sherlock says quietly, “There are moments I still can’t believe you are here, with me, sometimes.”

John opens his eyes and looks at him, taking his hand.

“You are not wearing your wedding ring,” Sherlock says. John can tell he’s been wanting to bring it up for some time.

John shakes his head. “I took it off, after the shower. I would have done it earlier- but I totally forgot about it.”

Sherlock thumbs his now empty finger. “Are you sad?”

John brings his hand to his lips, kissing Sherlock’s knuckles, “I am not. I am truly not, Sherlock. Maybe that makes me a completely horrible human being but I can’t feel sad about it when it brought you back to me.”

“I meant what I said, at the wedding,” Sherlock says quietly, “I thought love stood opposed to all reason. And a marriage was a celebration of all that is false and sentimental.”

John looks at him carefully, “Not anymore?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “How can it be so, when there is nothing more reasonable, more logical, more justifiable than having you at my side? How, when it is your love which shapes me to be a better man, and in return makes everything in this world more real and worthy of living?”

John’s eyes are a bit watery, he blinks them hard and smiles at him, squeezing his hand. “I’m glad it took the catastrophic disintegration of my own marriage to convince you of seeing the world in a more positive light,” he jokes lightly.

Sherlock snorts, “Well, _no_. You did it all completely wrong, didn’t you? You just have to try to do better,” he says and then suddenly bites down on his words, as if he wanted to take them back.

John’s vision goes a bit blurry again, “Yes, I’ll just have to, won’t I?” He watches how his soft words causes Sherlock to blush.

“Um,” he says, fidgeting horribly.

John clears his throat, “Um, would that be… something… you would be interested on, you know... for later?...”

Sherlock seems to have frozen in place, eyes wide.

John mentally kicks himself, immediately embarrassed, “Never mind, ignore tha-”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock bursts out, “yes, that- that would be- that would _very much_ interest me John, yes. Did I say _yes_? I meant to say yes. Yes. Just in case.”

“Okay,” John’s cheeks hurt from smiling so hard, “Alright. I heard you. I’m, um- I’m really glad. Very. Glad.”

They stay for a minute smiling at each other like a pair of crazy lunatics, then John clears out his throat, again.

Sherlock grabs his hand in a hurry, “Let’s go through Mycroft’s stuff,” he suggests.

John laughs his head off and they go inside.

 

***

 

John convinces them _not_ to go through Mycroft’s office, “Just, _once_ was enough, Sherlock- I don’t want a repeat of that incident with the laptop.” Instead, they spend an hour looking through the news. Nothing is getting through of course, after that video message there seems to be a complete media black-out. There were only one or two channel showing boring looking documentaries. Sherlock tries to connect to his mailbox through his phone, but to his utter frustration, he actually cannot guess Mycroft’s password to get past the blocked Wi-Fi.

John finally manages to coax him out of his sulk and they spend another hour making out on the couch. Before it gets too heated though, Sherlock’s stomach grumbles loudly. John laugh so hard he actually falls off the couch. They decide to investigate the kitchen, making-do with their very limited cooking skills and surprisingly, actually come up with something edible. Apparently, Sherlock cannot cook anything except lasagna. It's so delicious that John decides to send Angelo some good Italian cheese or wine or anything, because God, it is so good. They pass on the wine, both wanting to stay clear headed, in case something comes up, and instead open a couple of Mycroft’s fancy sparkling waters.

After the dinner, John very accidentally manages to find Netflix on the smart tv and insists they watch _Finding Nemo_. Sherlock complains loudly for exactly five minutes, then he is so engrossed, he doesn’t even register John’s cheeky jabs. Then half an hour into it, he starts to point out many scientific inaccuracies, ignoring John’s pleas against it. Finally, he goes all silent when Nemo actually gets lost, letting out only small occasional snorts- especially with Dory. Then towards the end, he goes all snotty and teary eyed and they have to stop the movie until John promised and swears to him that it had a happy ending. When the movie ends with the fish back at school and John snogs the hell out of this ridiculous, lovely man while Robbie Williams sings.

“I’m adding Pixar nights in addition to Bond nights, as well,” John tells him, grinning.

Sherlock makes a painful face, “I suppose it could be acceptable,” he nods.

Towards midnight, Sherlock becomes quiet, which in return, worries John.

“He should have returned with some news by now, right?” he asks quietly and Sherlock nods. After Sherlock asks to be left alone for an hour to think, John explores around the house. He's getting anxious and doesn't want to let Sherlock out of his sight. He brings up a few blankets from upstairs and they snuggle in front of the fireplace in the sitting room. He looses the struggle against sleep with his head on Sherlock’s lap, with a hand in his hair.   

Around three of the morning, he hears a commotion from outside and he sits up to find Sherlock already up and looking out of the window, his face illuminated by a set of headlights.

Five minutes later, the living room door opens and Mycroft walks in with a bundle in his arms.

“John, I am truly sorry,” he says, looking exhausted as hell.

John feels his stomach drop. His legs are shaking so bad its hard to stand but then sees the bundle move. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Sherlock is frozen to the spot. John feels sluggish as he moves towards Mycroft. He takes her securely into his arms and with trembling hands, tries to straights the blanket covering her face, and is startled to see a pair of dark brown eyes.

John lets out a hoot of laugh. He doesn’t even notice Sherlock has moved next to him until he speaks. “John, _John_ , are you alright?” He sounds concerned.

“Oh, _Jesus_ ,” John chokes out, tears of laughter trickling down his cheeks.

The baby, whose skin is unmistakably chocolate coloured, curiously blinks back at them.

Sherlock looks wide eyed at the baby before lifting his head to stare incredulously at Mycroft.

“I said I am sorry, didn’t I?” Mycroft lets out a sigh and opens up a cabinet to pour himself a drink.

John is still laughing, his giggles shaking the baby in his arms, he carefully adjusts her, sitting his ass down safely on the couch. “ _Jesus Christ_ , I am sorry- I can’t help it…” he chokes out, finally managing to get his breath back.

Sherlock looks very, very concerned. “John, are you sure you are alright?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” John grins, “God… did the doctors check her over? She looks really good for being premature.”

Mycroft downs the whiskey in his glass and pours himself another. “She had a very quick examination considering the situation but of course, please do whatever you feel is best, John.”

John lifts her, freeing her from her swaddle of blankets. He slowly turns her counting her limbs and her toes, while she chews on her knuckles in a very well-behaved way. She even has a tuft of curly hair.

“I will need my bag and some equipment,” John says, finally bundling her up again, “But she should be fine until morning. I suppose she is here and not in a hospital because we are guarding her?”

Sherlock finally manages to sit down next to him, staring at the baby as if she did something unbelievably incredible. He puts a finger to her feet, which apparently tickles her and she kicks back at him.

“Yes,” Mycroft sighs, “Mary is currently under arrest in a private care. She asked me to bring her to you. I suppose she'll want to explain herself later, John.”

John is still smiling. “Thank you, Mycroft.”

Mycroft bows his head, “It was not a pleasure- but in this case, maybe it’s for the better,” he says thoughtfully, looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes are still on John. “Are you okay?” he asks again, very quietly.

John lets out a sigh, “I’m fine, God, Sherlock- I am. I am relieved,” he admits, then points to the bundle at his arms, “Do you think she was going to confess at her birth or at her first birthday?”

A grin breaks Sherlock’s sombre expression and they both collapse into giggles.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “I am glad you both find this life altering occasion very funny. I suppose I can leave her in your good care until morning? She’s fed and changed. I haven't held a baby since him,” he gestures at Sherlock with his chin, “and am beyond exhausted.”

Sherlock snorts, “You never even held me. You were scared of dropping me off my head.”

“Well, you will never know that for sure, will you?” Mycroft sweetly replies and gets up. “Good night, you two.”

“Night, Mycroft.”

As soon as Mycroft is out of the room, Sherlock grabs John by the neck and fiercely kisses him. “You amaze me every day, John,” he says softly.

John smiles at him. “I don’t know what I expected but- I suppose this helps, that she never expected us to last. I wonder who her father really is?”

Sherlock looks down at the tiny face, trying to make out some features. “I suppose we will know very soon. She has her ears and nose, though. I confess, I did not expect her to be… this tiny,” he says, curiously examining her little fingers.

“Cute, isn’t she? Let me see if I still remember this right,” John tickles her on her palm, smiling when the baby grabs it strong, crumpling her face. “Hey, little one.”

Sherlock is beyond surprised. “John. John, why does she do that?”

“It’s okay, look,” John says, hushed and they both watch her yawn.

Sherlock makes a sound very close to ‘aw’ then quickly looks up to see if John noticed. He did. John grins at him and arranges the baby on his chest, then lays back on Sherlock.

The baby makes a tiny sigh and settles. John holds her and they both watch her fall asleep.

 

***

 

The morning light brings one detective inspector in his casual wear and sporting John’s medical bag, among other things. Mycroft is absent, probably still sleeping.

John takes the bag from Greg. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to draw any extra attention.”

“It’s fine,” Lestrade waves him away, grinning at the small bundle, currently in Sherlock’s arms, “I’ve had two girls myself, I know how much work the newborns are. Sorry again, John.”

John quickly prepares the make-shift exam table with white cloth covered over it. “It’s, um, it’s fine. Honestly, I’m more than relieved.”

“Yeah?” Greg eyes him, “Well, must be true, you look better than ever, mate.”

John clears his throat, “Do I? Sherlock, you can bring her in, now.”

Sherlock has a burp cloth over his shoulder and his shirt sleeves carefully folded up. John is amused by Sherlock’s judgmental glare at Greg’s attempts of cooing at the baby, then hands her over to John. “She did the thing again, John. We must feed her in two hours.”

“Okay, let me work now, please? I generally do not do this,” he says and looks up to Sherlock. They exchange some kind of awkward but fond smiles.

As John processes the baby’s more thorough examination starting with her head and ears, Greg crosses his arms. “Well, bummer. I was looking forward to be a kind-of uncle, really,” He nudges Sherlock to his side, “Eh, right, Sherlock? You must be disappointed, as well. She is a cutie, that one.”

Sherlock makes some sounds resembling letters. His tired eyes are on John.

Greg looks at him incredulously, looks to where John is, then back at him. “Oh, _bollocks_ ,” he exclaims, covering his mouth, “No bloody way. It can’t be. _Really?!_ ”

Sherlock looks alarmed, glancing at him, then turning his eyes fixedly back at John and the baby. “I have no idea what you are talking about, Lestrade,” he says haughtily.

“Cut the crap,” Greg says excitedly, “I can’t bloody believe this. I thought I’d lost the pool forever, I’m the only one left still betting on you two. You two, really??”

Sherlock viciously kicks him at the shin, “Keep it _down_ , you’ll embarrass John.”

Greg is chuckling. “Aw, you are so cute being all embarrassed. God, I knew something was going to go down after that best man speech.”

Sherlock crosses his arms defensively, “Well, you were the one who gave me _those very_ interesting tips, I am told, so you might as well take some credit, I suppose.”

Greg is grinning. “Hell yes, I am taking it,” He slaps Sherlock on his back, “Congrats, mate. No wonder I thought he looked _positively shagg_ -”

“Sherlock, do you have the- oh, ta,” John says as he takes the other sock from him before returning to the baby. Once the sock is on he brings her back over with him. “She’s absolutely fine, she just needs to be watched over. What are you two talking about?”

Greg clears his throat, “Oh nothing, I was just congratulating Sherlock. You too, mate, I’m glad you guys worked it out.”

“Oh,” John says, looking worried for a second, the tips of his ears turning red, “Um, thank you. Yes, uh…” he looks helplessly at Sherlock.

Sherlock pointedly looks at Lestrade, “John and I are sleeping together,” he says crassly, “We are also together. But not like before.”

John’s entire face is turning red now, but he is smiling. “Also like before.”

“But much different,” Sherlock helpfully adds, “As in we do have sex.”

Greg lets out a laugh, “Alright, alright, I get it. Good for you, both. I always believed in you. Hey- I’m going to be your best man now, this time though, alright? We’ll throw a proper stag do.”

John coughs, “Um, a bit early, but thanks, yeah.”

Sherlock is indignant. “What was wrong with my stag do?!”

Lestrade grins at both of them, “Well, you’ll have to wait and see.”

“Well it is traditional for the brother to stand for the best man, in case the groom runs away,” Mycroft says as he shows up, still looking a bit crumpled than his usual perfectionist attire, “But it won’t be necessary this time, I believe. Good morning, all. How is our little guest?”

John pulls her up to his arms, slowly rocking her, “Good. Very good, considering she is a premature- but she is going to need some shots. I can do them but I need the meds.”

Mycroft indicates with his head, “Write a list of everything you need. I’ll arrange for it. It may take a bit of time until she is able to reunite with her mother, I’m afraid. If you are fine with it?”

John looks at Sherlock, who nods. “We can take care of her,” he says.

Lestrade snorts, “Not without my help, no. How long are we talking about here?” he asks Mycroft.

“Maybe three days?” Mycroft looks at them.

Greg gets out a worn-out notebook and a pen, “Good. You are going to need these, then.”

When he hands over the list, Mycroft’s eyebrows go up, “Is all this really necessary?”

Greg points out to the floor, “This is your house, yeah? This carpet looks nice, is it washable?”

Mycroft’s eyebrows are lost in the line of his brow. “I see your point. Very well. I’ll make sure you are provided with all this. John, Sherlock,” he says and quickly disappears, presumably to make some urgent calls.

Lestrade grins after him and then takes the baby from John’s arms. “Give her to me,” he says, “Go eat some breakfast. Take a nap. You have two hours.”

John looks relieved, “Thanks, Greg. You don’t have to.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Greg smiles, “Consider it an early favour. Go on, you two.”

Sherlock looks unbelievably torn, until John takes him by the hand and pulls him out of the room.

“Let’s take a nap, please,” he begs, pulling him towards the room where they are staying, “We can grab a bite later, I just want to close my eyes for a second.”

“Are you sure Greg will be able to handle her?” Sherlock asks worriedly.

“He had two daughters, I’m sure he’ll do better than us,” John yawns and pulls his shoes off, crawling into the unmade bed. “Please, c’mere.”

Sherlock hesitates just one second, then copying him, burrowing himself into John’s arms.

John kisses him sweetly.

“John,” Sherlock says sleepily, “I didn’t realize babies were tiny, criminal geniuses.”

John giggles half-asleep, “It’s’kay, I didn’t know it either.”

“She’s only little,” Sherlock sighs and then mumbles incomprehensibly into John’s shoulder.

They both sleep over two hours but Greg doesn’t complain.

 

***

 

At the end of the second day, the baby is cooed over by both Molly and Mrs. Hudson, who both dropped by in different times to give them a visit, who both expressed how cute the baby was, and both in return, relayed their regards to John, who nodded them over, thankful for their attention. Mrs. Hudson cooked them all a hearty meal which stretched for over three meals, while Molly provided an admirable strength, as she took the longest babysitting shift, ever. John is a bit worried over her reaction, regarding he and Sherlock, but as ever, Molly is stronger than all of them. She quietly congratulates them, saying that she always knew that Sherlock had feelings for him. She never saw him paying that much attention to anything else, she grins self-deprecatingly, not even drowned corpses. She smiles when Lestrade compliments how nice she looks, despite the fact that she has baby spit all over her hair and they decide promptly to throw a tiny tea party for the little one, even though she is only barely able to make out their faces, just.  

John looks over where both Molly and Greg are smiling at the baby’s head and realizes.

“Oh,” he says, looking over to Sherlock, who is currently washing the bottles.

“Hmm,” Sherlock gives him an approving grin, when he notices where John is looking.

“Wow,” John is very much surprised, “I never realized it, I mean.”

“Neither does he,” Sherlock replies, “I knew it as soon as I saw her previous engagement ring.”

“Really?” John is amazed, “Should we start up a pool ourselves then, for them?”

“You are welcome to join mine,” Sherlock says, “I bet Mike one year, three months and six days.”

John can’t figure out what he could be talking about.

Sherlock grins, “That’s how long until Lestrade’s divorce is finalized.”

John laughs and takes the cloth from him, “The doctor and the detective, hmm. Remind you of anyone?”

Sherlock steals a glance over the sitting room, then reaching down to kiss him, “Nope, no one at all.”

 

***

 

John doesn’t want to move. The television is stuck on some sort of documentary regarding sea lions and Sherlock is deeply asleep under the heavy blanket, his face snuggling against John’s stomach. The baby is also on John’s chest, finally calm enough to let them rest a little while, one of John’s hand is holding on to her, the other, caressing Sherlock’s head. He doesn’t want to move, but he can hear voices outside the sitting room, Mycroft’s vowels and someone else’s, a woman’s. He takes a steadying breath as the door creaks open and Mycroft’s head appears, checking him with a glance. John nods to him.

Mycroft disappears and a moment later, Mary walks in, looking very much tired.

John’s fingers tighten on the blanket. Sherlock shifts uneasily in his sleep.

Mary stays unmoving, for a second at the door, then with slow, silent steps, she approaches to them, sitting on the coffee table across John.

Her voice is barely above a whisper when she talks, “Well. I can’t say I am surprised.”

John swallows and indicates the hand currently holding on to the baby’s bottom. “Do you want to take her?”

“Not yet,” Mary whispers, her hand slightly shaking as she slowly reaches a finger to caress her tiny little curls. “Is she okay? I was worried-”

“She is,” John confirms, “She had all her initial check-ups, but make sure to follow up.” John hesitates, “It’s a beautiful, healthy baby.”

“Thank you,” Mary says to him quietly.

She looks horrible, with bags under her eyes and her loose clothes unable to hide the changes her body went through. It seems all the energy has been sapped from her, but there is something finally settled and relieved in her eyes, which makes her look… softer.

The baby makes a fuss against John’s chest and Sherlock jumps in reflex, which in return wakes her up completely.

John squeezes his shoulder to calm him down and puts both of his hands over the baby’s little form, handing her to her mother.

Mary takes her with such a natural way, greeting her softly, with tears in her eyes, “Hey, gorgeous,” she whispers, “Did you miss me?”

The baby makes a gurgling sound of surprise and looks awed.

As she calms down, Sherlock sits up completely, looking out of place but his hand under the blanket grabs into John’s waist.

Mary blinks the tears out of her eyes and they roll down her face. Sniffing, she looks up at them. “I suppose I own you some explanations,” she says.

Sherlock makes them both cups of strong coffee and herbal tea for her.John notices Sherlock is looking a bit more awake after a quick wash up and trying to fix the nest that was his hair. Mary has settled in the large armchair, her legs crossed and off the floor, and has the once again sleeping baby in one arm.

Sherlock sits down next to John as she starts with, “My real name is Anya,” she admits, “I was an active agent long before we’ve met under CIA.”

“Top operations?” Sherlock asks.

Mary nods. “Yes. Mostly intelligence. We were trying to infiltrate a terrorist cell when the man you know as Jim Moriarty compromised our position,” she says, “My partner- and husband, James, was captured.”

John feels his eyes grow large. “You are actually married? Really, married?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry- go on,” John shakes his head.

Mary falls silent for a second, slowly caressing her baby’s little hands, then contines her tale. “I did all I could to track down James. Jim… was amused by me. He regularly sent me clues; photos, videos… of where James was being tortured,” she says, John’s hand spams. “All my sources in and out of CIA- none of them were able to crack his messages. I was growing frustrated. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I proposed an offer.”

Sherlock completes the rest for her, “You lent him your services in exchange of the safety of your husband.”

Mary hesitates a second, then nods, “Yes. He was so clever. He made me do a bunch of wet jobs. Jobs that would ensure I would never be able to return to the CIA- nor go underground. In exchange, I was able to talk to James on the phone for a few minutes. He was still being held captive but at least, he was no longer tortured.”

Marry swallows, looking down, “I had to find Moriarty's weak spot. He seemed so unreachable when we were over the seas. But when we came to the UK, I realized he was suddenly obsessed with an… online detective.” John squeezes Sherlock’s fingers.

Mary eyes them, then carefully continues, “He knew I was under his thumb, as long as James was alive. I didn’t see you two up close until we were at the pool, together. I was one of the snipers,” she admits.

John snorts self-deprecatingly. Sherlock gets up to pour more coffee. He seems frustrated when he comes back but calmly, sits down next to John, his fingers around his cup.

Mary continues, “It was obvious that the cold detective also had a weak spot,” she says, looking at Sherlock, “Moriarty tried so long to crack you, when that didn’t work, he decided to get rid of you. He was so sure that you would kill yourself on that roof. And there I was, once again assigned to sniper duty. I was positioned to be your secondary sniper, John. Sebastian Moran was going to be your first.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” John draws a steadying breath then closes his eyes tightly.

“That was my opportunity,” Mary tells, looking unfazed, “All I needed was Sherlock to kill himself. Then Moriarty – Richard Brooke would have to disappear and Moriarty wouldn’t need me or James anymore. I sensed an opening. I captured and killed his right hand man, Sebastian Moran, before we went on the roof,” Mary confesses and then snorts, “Jim Moriarty was an aristocratic bastard. He would _never_ get his hands dirty. He had Moran for that. He never found out who did it. But suddenly he was more deranged than ever. He needed someone to do his bidding, unquestioningly. I- _convinced_ him that he could trust me. We were best buddies then,” Mary smiles coldly, “He gave me half of a code to indicate James’ whereabouts. Told me that he would complete it, after Sherlock killed himself.”

“How did you convince Jim Moriarty, after killing his most trusted man?” Sherlock demands to know.

Mary gives him a searching look, “Jim never understood why you wouldn’t join his side, Sherlock. He sent Irene Adler to lure you. He was so sure you wouldn’t be able to resist her charms. When that failed horribly, he was furious. He was planning your ultimate demise- but originally, he was going to threaten you by getting to Mycroft. He was convinced that John was nothing but your lackey. I told him that he was utterly wrong- that you were probably in love with John. As an extra motive, I suggested that he also needed to capture your landlady and that detective inspector. He didn’t believe me first, but finally did exactly as I said. He was charmed with the idea of destroying all the aspects of your live. I’d say it worked.”

John crosses his arms, trying hard to get his breath under control.

“When I heard the shot and the call-off signal didn’t come… I was crushed. Moriarty blew his brains out and the only man he has been in contact with was lying on the pavement with his skull cracked open. I had no way to retrieve the information about where my husband was. I panicked. I knew I had to find another way, because I knew someone else would rise to his position. So I had to somehow prove that I was still useful- then I saw you, John,” Mary’s eyes fix on him. “You were utterly devastated. There was no doubt Sherlock was dead, then.”

Sherlock taps his fingers impatiently on the sides on his cup.

Mary continues, her voice is still soft so as not to disturb the baby, “I thought but perhaps- older Holmes would be willing to help his younger brother’s only “friend”. Criminal circles were certainly interested in having Mycroft Holmes inside their hands. So before anyone could figure it out, I had to make sure you were totally under my control. I changed my identity and assumed one as Mary Morstan. I was already preparing for it, in case, you know, I managed to save James. After a month into our acquaintance, I quickly realized you weren’t in contact with Mycroft Holmes at all and therefore, were no use to me.”

Mary’s voice goes lower as she looks to John, “You were convinced that you were missing out on something, though. Which made me hesitate. I wasn’t sure if you were out of your mind with grief- because you kept seeing Sherlock everywhere, or if there was some truth behind your suspicions. You never talked about them and you closed your blog, forcing me to pretend that I never heard of it, before- until the trial cleared Sherlock’s name. But you were having nightmares and I… let’s say I put things together and decided to end it.”

“You sure took your sweet time,” John grits out of his teeth, angry beyond any possible reason, “I don’t remember getting ready for a break-up and let me be clear, I am very familiar with the signs.”

“I couldn’t be sure,” Mary admits, “Even your little fan club had wild theories, I had to make sure. But then, surprise, surprise… it turned out you were right. He was, actually, alive.”

“Get on with it,” Sherlock snaps.

Mary clears her throat, “I knew that as soon as you came back, Sherlock, people would want to hurt him- to hurt _you_. I couldn’t let that happen. You were my only leverage against the upcoming Moriarty. I couldn’t figure out who that was going to be and didn’t have time to track them down. Jim would only trust his plans to one man,” Mary pauses, “Professor Moriarty, the real one, the elder.”

“The true spider behind the web,” Sherlock snarls, “I should have known.”

Mary nods, “He has been doing it for years, even years after he was actually capable of threatening anyone, thanks to all of his alternative personas. Nobody knew his true face, because he had several Moriartys, sometimes more than one, frolicking around the globe, creating chaos. The Professor is old and very weak, but at his late age, he had one son- Jim- who was mentally disturbed but who was so, so clever.”

Mary carefully takes a sip of her herbal tea, putting the cup down and putting her hands back around her baby. “The Professor knew the code. I needed to convince him to let me go. I learned all this information with very hard won consequences, which, in return, drew Magnussen’s attention to me. I knew too much- I was a liability to the organization. I told him to give me James, in exchange of John. The Professor was very interested of having the ultimate leverage against the man who made his son kill himself.”

“I decided to go along with the wedding,” Mary continues, “And then… the pregnancy happened. There was no way it was yours, John. My source in the CIA managed to crack the code just three weeks before our wedding and found out where they kept James. I went to him. We – had a night together. We were making preparations to go underground that the next morning, he was shot in front of me.”

“I couldn’t be sure if he was dead- or he survived,” Mary takes a deep breath, “But I knew it was the Professor who had him this time. He wanted to use me. He told me to keep up the act and that he would keep James alive. Meanwhile CAM thought pressuring me would give him more leverage. He believed he knew who I was- that Mary Morstan was a real person and he figured it out that I was undercover for the Professor. He even sent a telegram at our wedding, do you remember? He was threatening to expose me. All of my leverage power came through you, John- I needed to make sure that you were completely dependent on me and no one else. The truth would have destroyed you. I decided to kill Magnussen, before he could do anything, so that I could be free to act upon the Professor.”

“Huh,” Sherlock makes a sound sarcastically, “I suppose I was more use to you alive than dead.”

Mary gives him a calculating look, “I was running out of time. The Professor’s health was fast failing. He probably wanted to kill you, himself- or more likely, try to lure you to be the next Moriarty position. He is much more convincing than his son, believe me. So yes, I am a good shot- but you were also very lucky, Sherlock.”

“I was told that I am,” Sherlock replies airily, “So you’ve got in contact with your pals in the CIA, after I actually killed Magnussen. They faked a signal announcing Moriarty’s return and tracked it to the Professor, who was more than likely sending out men to track it to see who was using his dead son’s image to taunt him. Sentiment, in the end, was the end of him. He was instantly captured- didn’t even resist. I suspect that he hoped that his son too, would make a miraculous return.”

Mary nods slowly, “I couldn’t follow them to the raid. This little girl suddenly decided to join on the party. I am told that they found James in the basement. He is weak, but still alive. It’s finally over. He can’t wait to meet our daughter.”

John rubs his face, “So. You lied to me, married me and almost killed Sherlock- just to keep your husband safe.”

“Yes,” Mary says, “I wish I could say I am sorry.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” John lets out a bitter laugh. “I was thinking about how to break it to you, about the divorce, but it turns out there's no need, so that’s a relief, at least.”

The baby makes a snuffling sound as Mary gets up and rocks her. “Yes,” she says, a bit regretfully, “I am glad you two have worked it out, though. That was really painful to watch.”

“Thanks,” John says sarcastically but as his eyes fall on the baby, he goes quiet.

“Our car is waiting,” Mary says softly, “We’ll be off to our plane, now.”

Sherlock gets up to hand her a bag of necessities. “You will take excellent care of her,” he says to her, firmly.

Mary smiles to him. She throws a look to John, hesitating, then bowing her head, she walks towards the door.

“Anya,” John calls to her. A surprised, but pleased face turns to them. “What are you going to name her?”

She thinks a minute. “Joy. I think I’m going to name her, Joy.”

Mycroft is waiting for her at the door.

As they watch her leave from the window, Sherlock clings onto John’s waist from behind, hugging him tightly.

“Are you okay?” he asks, softly.

John draws a shaky breath, “I feel kind of sad,” he admits quietly, “I was getting used to her- the baby, I mean.”

Sherlock hesitates, “They will most probably go into a witness protection scheme. But I can convince them to allow us a visit, if you want to?”

John shakes his head, “It’s better for her, to start over new,” he says, “I’m sure Mycroft will provide us a detailed report on them.”

Sherlock kisses him on the side of his head. “Come on. We don’t need to stay in this damnable house any longer.”

John smiles weakly to him, “Where to?”

“Mycroft just texted me about my clearance,” Sherlock says, “You already quit your job. You also need to move back to Baker Street and wait through the legal processing before you sell the house and the car.”

John feels quite daunted by the whole of it. “Well- that sounds like a lot of work.”

“I have a better idea,” Sherlock tells him, “Let’s leave it and take a break and go to France.”

John’s face breaks into a growing smile. “You want me to meet Grandma Holmes?”

Sherlock nods at him, “She has a beautiful house. Located on a very secluded beach. I’ll teach you how to ask for good wine in French.”

John grins at him widely, “You’ve got me at ‘break’,” he says and pulls him down for a long kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have one more epilogue-thingy.


	4. grand-mère knows best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is warmed down to his bones. His neck is sweating lightly, the Mediterranean sun washing down of the muscles of his back. The towel under his cheek is so soft and it smells faintly of salt, his fingers are brushing against tiny little pebbles, all of them little hot kisses against his skin. The sound of the waves mix with the chirping of the instincts and a few hoots of the birds. He is floating between this world and the sleep land that something ice cold throws itself into his back, kicking him rudely out of his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaannnnnd that's it!

**iv.          grand-mère knows best**

 

 _“(…) The way I want to love you,_  
_Well, it could be against the law._  
_I've seen you in a thousand minds,_  
_You've made the angels fall._  
_Won't you dance with me,_  
_In my world of fantasy? (…)”_

~ Nouvelle Vague, **_Dance With Me_** , Bande à Part (2006)

 

 

John is warmed to his bones. His neck is sweating slightly, the Mediterranean sun beating down on the muscles in his back. The towel under his cheek is so soft and it smells faintly of salt, and his fingers are brushing against tiny little pebbles, all of them little hot kisses against his skin. The sound of the waves mix with the buzzing of instincts and a few chirps from the birds. He is floating between this world and sleep that something ice cold lands on his back, kicking him rudely out of his dreams.

“ _Jesus_ ,” John hisses and recoils from Sherlock’s icy body, “How long were you under the water, God- stop, stop snuggling me-”

Sherlock has a mad glint in his eyes and a grin on his blue lips. “John! John, you _have to_ come take a look- there are some incredible bacteria ground down there-”

“Is it higher than a _seven_? I thought we agreed on that.”

“No, no, it’s not a _seven_ \- but it could be a _five_ , John! Where else you are going to see this, again?”

John chuckles, grabbing another sun cooked towel on the next sunbed, wrapping it tightly around Sherlock’s shaking shoulders. “Look at you, you are like an icicle. Come on, warm up a little, I promise the bacteria will not go anywhere soon.”

Sherlock manages to fit himself on John’s already narrow sunbed, hugging him around his stomach and drawing his legs up. “But they could disappear John- it’s under the sea, after all, how is it going to be controlled?”

John gives up on staying warm, instead reaches to his bag, stretching out almost tipping off the chair to grab the sunscreen. He sprays it directly on to Sherlock’s face, the only part of him exposed to sun, now, and smears it down to his cheeks and ears. They already had one crisis with the sunburn, there is no need for another.

Sherlock gives a long sigh, burying himself further into John’s sun warmed body. “John, I seem to be tired.”

“Of course you are,” John pets him, “Stop trying to drown yourself and let the bacteria have their break, too.”

Sherlock mumbles something incomprehensible, the colour already returning to his cheeks. John looks around to see a young mother and two kids. They are playing a little far from them, under the stripped umbrella. The mother notices him looking, gives him a kind smile and then returns back to her book, uninterestedly.

Well, then.

John lies down a bit further, snuggling up to Sherlock who is snoring lightly and closes his eyes. He is back dozing off, quicker than ever.

Sherlock is grumpy when he wakes up napping for more than two hours. His hair is a frizzy, dried solid with sea water, mess and he looks pained. John helps him to spray his hair with his fancy-ass hair stuff and enjoys running his fingers through to gently untangle his curls. Once that is taken care of, Sherlock is more than happy to return the favor by finding some food and drinks.

They find a charming little street vendor selling seafood and Sherlock insists on buying almost their weight in stuffed mussels. He is glad though, because they are simply delicious and gone sooner than he wants them to be. They no sooner get rid of their oily mess before they are flagging down an ice cream vendor.

John is pretty sure he will end this vacation by either gaining those seven pounds back or getting sick down the toilet because of all the crap food he is eating. He limits his ice cream to two scoops, not letting Sherlock have a taste, until he is allowed to taste his, as well.

Even with fingers, sticky _again_ , John has no objection whatsoever when Sherlock pulls him over ro a very secluded corner of the beach where they make out madly behind the bushy trees. Sherlock comes first, followed shortly by John- after getting their breath back they wade into the water to clean up.

The non-gravity of the sea has reduced their hight difference, which allows him to better see that Sherlock’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose have turned red again. He is also aware that since coming to here, neither his leg nor his hand seem to giving him trouble. It really was, all in his head.

Sherlock finally shows him the bacteria ground, situated under the shallow side of a giant rock. While distracted by his discovery, John surprises him and promptly steals his swimming trunks. He waits until Sherlock begs for them and promises not to go near any kind of sea creatures proper gear, the berk. Those sea urchins look _definitely_ poisonous.

When he thinks back on the incident later he realizes that it would have been beneficial to hold out longer before giving them back, since Sherlock is hardly shy about public nudity. To encourage a second appearance of that bum, he decides to swap Sherlock’s designer shorts for ridiculous red ones.

When they return from their beachside frolic, Grand-mère Holmes, “ _Maman, mon chou, just call me Maman_ ,” is waiting for them with a light snack. She is tiny with age, her head just coming up to Sherlock’s chest and with a shock of bright pink hair. She still seems to have the most excellent memory which both worries and relieves John. Apparently she is also quite spry with perfect aim, as she's smacked the back of Sherlock's hand several times when he's tried to sneak a piece of her apple pie. John can hardly blame him, it looks delicious and all hopes to watch out his weight are lost against the sight of it.

Over the course of the evening, she and Sherlock continue to speak Frenglish to each other. John only manages to understand about half of what they are saying. He wonders from the kitchen, noting the many books in the sitting room about thermochemistry. John spots several of very dusty medals and awards all over the house, even one which looks suspiciously like the Nobel Prize hanging from the kitchen’s wall. It really explains Sherlock’s love for blowing things up in the kitchen.

She also seems to be having a love affair with her neighbour across the street, an elderly Spanish gentleman who brings her flowers from his garden every morning and in return, convinces her to blow things up in the back of his garden to the utter delight of his grand-son and daughters.

She adores Sherlock and consistently flirts with John. John more than loves this tiny little woman. But he loves her even more when she retires early for the night, leaving the entire wing of the house to themselves.

“Mmm, you are all tanned up, John, you smell so nice,” Sherlock sighs and buries his nose to his neck.

“God, you drive me crazy,” John whispers as he hurriedly pulls up Sherlock’s shirt, “And I had to be all _the nice docteur_ to your elderly grandma, what I actually wanted was to rip your clothes off.”

Sherlock grins madly, “She adores you just a tiny bit too much, mind, you can stand to be a bit more mean to her.”

“I can’t be mean to her, she is like ninety years old,” John moans and starts sucking on Sherlock’s chest. “God- it’s those tan lines and all these new little moles you have, they drive me crazy, I don’t know why…”

Sherlock laughs and soundly kisses him back, “You do have the weirdest kinks, John.”

“I do, I do,” John whimpers back, “Can we be naked, now?”

They do end up naked, which in return, results in John coming so hard that he suspects he killed few of his brain cells, then him, suggesting to give a try to that thing- “What thing?” “You know, the thing I said… about sucking you off,” – and then successfully ending with John giving his first blowjob- “You okay? Say something, Sherlock-” and Sherlock receiving his first one- “Okay, okay- breath it out-” which utterly, _heh_ , blows his mind.

“John, I don’t think I can feel my legs,” Sherlock says wondrously.

John flops down next to him. “Do you think we can do it again? I don’t think I’ll be able do it again,” he says, looking miserably at his already hardening cock.

They do give it another go, though. Which John later regrets, because his legs still feel like jelly when the next morning they are chasing down French jewellery thieves and breaking up an international smuggling ring. He managed to knock down the big fella who had been waving his knife at Sherlock. As a result this guy spouted off what he predicts, very angry French words.

Between them, they end up with a bruised knee, a small cut to the eyebrow and a few bruises, but generally it’s a success. The French police are more than grateful and the tall, blond Detective François le Villard would _not_ stop shaking _Monsieur_ Holmes’ hand.

John keeps hearing his name and a few words and the repeated use of “ _votre bel homme_ ,” which he recognizes some of it. At least, it is not “ _petit copain_ ” this time, which Grand-mère seemed to prefer using whenever she introduces John to her neighbours. He is not _petit_ , thank you very much.

Detective le Villard seems to be insisting quite passionately about something in rapid French, as he gets out a card to write a number on it. Sherlock seems to hesitate, finally replying, “ _Il n’est pas encore mon époux, malheureusement_ ,” he says, “ _Merci bien pour votre invitation, mais nous devrions partir avec vous, maintenant_.”

“ _Bon dieu_ ,” Detective le Villard seems quite horrified at his faux pas, “ _Ah bien, veuillez m’excuser- enchanté, Monsieur Watson, Monsieur Holmes_ ,” he says shaking both of their hands once again before going to shout loudly at his officers.

“What was that about?” John asks.

“He, um- wanted to invite us to a thing,” Sherlock murmurs, “I told him that we couldn’t make it.”

“Oh,” John is confused because there seems to be a lot more than that, “What thing?”

“A married couple thing,” Sherlock admits, “They organize some sort of… party in their local church.”

“Oh,” John says again, feeling a bit stupid now, the tips of his ears burning slightly, “We could go, if you wanted to?”

Sherlock shakes his head and takes his hand. “Why would I want to, instead of having you all to myself?”

John grins at him. “You don’t want to mingle with the local force?”

Sherlock snorts, “Please, when have you ever seen me _mingle_?” he pauses a second to look back at John, then he is more than surprised. “You were _jealous_ of him,” he exclaims.

John clears his throat, “Shall we go grab some dinner then? I am starving.”

“Of him! Why?!” Sherlock is beyond amazed.

“I wasn’t, _shut up_.”

“I hope not, because that would be utterly ridiculous, John,” Sherlock says quite seriously, “You know you are the only thing I favour above all else in the world.”

John can’t help but smile, feeling quite chuffed at his choice of words. “All else? Even the skull?”

“The skull doesn't stand a chance,” Sherlock says, then pauses. “I know it’s… it’s a bit unrealistic to suggest… but I feel when I first saw you at the lab- I knew that you were it.”

John grins widely, “And you were all charm, weren’t you. All that bollocks with coffee and being utterly horrible to Molly- and winking at me, Jesus.”

Sherlock smiles in a sweet, shy way, “I wanted to impress you,” he says quietly, “You were perfect.”

John drags him over for a long, passionate kiss, not caring if they are alone or standing in the middle of a crime scene. “When we return home, I’m going to buy Mike flowers,” he declares, hoarsely.

Sherlock’s dimples make a return. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate them. I’ll try not to be too jealous.”

John whacks him in the arm and grinning, they walk back home.

*-*

_Fin_

?!

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading, reviewing and leaving me kudos. I really loved writing this little world of ours, this fic being probably the longest thing I have ever written in English, at least. I have some tentative ideas about another sequel, but I will leave them for now. Please subscribe if you wish to see more. Lots of potatoes <3


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